#one in finery and one in rags

[nevesmose]

Reloading my last Skyrim save file from early 2023 and remembering it was a "use a non-essential NPC's face preset, secretly murder them and then play the game based on their weapons/skills" run.

[atramenting]

I already posted this on bsky but this is my FoM farmer OC, Lake! Please excuse the fact that the little drawing of him is in almost the same pose as the sprite - I wanted to do a little redraw ^^;

A "Caldosian adventurer" with seemingly nothing in his past worth talking about, Lake comes to Mistria after finding the job posting in a city he was passing through. Having no home of his own, he thinks the offer sounds pretty swell - a house, however small and shabby, in exchange for some basic work? It sounds like a steal, especially after sleeping in the woods with nothing but a ragged tent and pallet most nights.

His original intentions are to come to town, save up whatever he can from his excess profits, and then disappear over the Caldosian border before anyone can find out anything about him. However, the warmhearted nature of the townsfolk winds up drawing him in, and he finds himself genuinely wanting to help restore what's been damaged in the aftermath of the earthquake. When he and Eiland unintentionally restore Caldarus, though it may be to just a bit of his former power, Caldarus offers Lake the ability to perform magic -- something that Lake had often found himself wishing for as a young child.

Against his better judgment, he accepts the boon from his new dragon companion and puts a real effort into shaping up the land he's been given, slowly growing closer to his new Mistrian neighbors. He quickly befriends Hayden when the man finds out he also has a soft spot for small farm animals, as well as Celine, who is more than happy to help him learn some of the finer points of gardening. However, it quickly becomes obvious that, despite technically working for Adeline, Lake is trying to avoid interacting with the town's nobility.

Gee, Adeline and Eiland think, he must be shy, being the newest face in town! Surely he's just nervous because he's not used to interacting with nobles! And so they make it their goal to make Lake realize that, despite their finery and manner, their parents are quite unlike many of the stuck-up vassals to the throne! They're just normal people!

What they don't realize, though, is that Lake is a former member of a group of... well, the sort of people that don't interact with polite society. Orphaned as a young child, he was taken in by the thieves who murdered his parents -- though he didn't know that part -- and branded as a part of their guild. At age twelve, he was given the chance to choose between two paths: either continue being the equivalent of servant, doomed to a life tending his overseers' livestock and gardens, or... become one of them.

He worked as a member of the thieves' guild for some time, until one fateful day. At age twenty-two, he was scoping out a market stall when a young lord happened to pass by and see the brand on his inner wrist. The man flew into a frenzy, accusing Lake of any number of crimes, exposing him there for what he was -- a lowly thief, one of the very group that had plagued the city for ages. Lake tried to explain that he had no idea what the man was talking about, and truthfully, for he had only come to Aldaria that week -- but he was soon set upon by not only the man's armed guards, but a furious swarm of marketgoers and stallkeepers as well.

At the end of a harrowing chase, Lake thought he had escaped, only to come face-to-face with the lord who had hurled those accusations his way. Beaten and exhausted, Lake tried to reason with him, but the man revealed the reason for his hatred - "My father died because of your sort!"

Lake looked down at that brand on his wrist, and something like understanding washed over him. He would always be one of the crooks who had taken lives and livelihoods -- there was no way talking like this was going to work. As he tried, the lord advanced on him, brandishing his sword -- and so Lake took out his own, and ended the man's life to earn his freedom.

The Caldosian border was on lockdown, any number of kingsmen could be searching for him, and so Lake turned to the nearest outpost -- only to be shunned for such a blatant crime, for having drawn attention to the guild with such a brazen murder. He fled for his life there, too, for the ones he might have considered brothers and sisters were only interested in collecting the bounty now on his head.

With nowhere to go, Lake ran and ran until he collapsed. He awoke in a small cabin in the woods, where he met the man who had saved him - a man who knew exactly who he was, and who still wanted to hear his side of the story. After explaining himself, Lake assumed he would get dragged off to the nearest town to be jailed and hanged, but instead the stranger just asked him -- "How does life as an adventurer sound?"

With the mark on his wrist obscured by a new tattoo, and a new identity pieced together for him by an experienced explorer, Lake began taking work through the Aldarian Adventurer's Guild, where he eventually earned enough merit to make a meager living for himself. However, he always stayed on the move -- afraid that if he stayed anywhere long enough for someone to recognize him, to find an old wanted poster and notice the resemblance or the holes in his backstory, that his new life of freedom would be taken from him.

And so it went, until Lake came to Mistria, where the baron's son took a particular interest in him for some unknown reason. And where he, as fate would have it, fell head over heels for Eiland in turn, while also trying to master dragon magic and keep his chickens and rabbits from eating his entire garden. Oh, and also, some other political drama as Mistria begins rising through the rankings, and the king's vassals start getting very suspicious and jealous of what's going on with all of that.

Fun facts: -Lake is vegetarian. He had to slaughter many of the animals he raised during his time with the thieves' guild, and it broke his heart every time. He has tons of pets now -- not livestock. He will correct anyone who makes that mistake.

-He loves fruits, and consequently, any sort of juice, sweet, drink, or dessert made out of them. He doesn't have a favorite, as it would be a tie between far too many! The fact that he can grow them all now is an absolute joy -- and the ones that only grow in the wild? He frequently goes foraging for them, whether to eat straight from the bush or to preserve for later.

-He likes keeping fish. They're pretty and relaxing to watch, so he often finds himself seated in front of an aquarium, lost in thought.

-He is a little bit shy, but also a good actor. He finds himself overwhelmed frequently when it comes to talking shop with Hayden, despite the man's friendly nature. As such, it's also super easy to convince him to do anything, because he'll just freeze up and agree to whatever it is a person is suggesting. He finds himself in a lot of situations like this, wishing he hadn't offered to help, and yet unwilling to go back on his word. (He's a good person now, he keeps telling himself.)

-He's a natural with the sword. He tries to avoid violence where possible, but there's also a part of him deep down that is really proud of the talent. He keeps this to himself for sure. He also wears his sword everywhere in Mistria -- something that's odd to the townspeople, but quickly gets filed as just a quirk.

-Lake and Eiland begin forming their friendship when it comes out that Lake is almost entirely uneducated. He can read and write, sure, and he's up to date on modern events -- but history? It's fascinating, but he feels like an idiot for not knowing even the most basic facts. Eiland loves teaching people, especially when it focuses on his own interests, and so they wind up spending a lot of time together.

-Lake doesn't get along well with Juniper or March. He doesn't trust whatever it is that Juniper is up to -- or the fact that she can sense Caldarus's magic on him. With March, they learn to tolerate each other, but Lake has really strong feelings on people who are assholes, undoubtedly from dealing with that sort quite a bit during his upbringing. For the sake of keeping the peace, though, Lake bites his tongue. Most of the time.

-Aside from Hayden and Celine, his closest neighbors, Lake also finds himself getting along well with Ryis and Olric. He also respects Valen a lot, but is fairly intimidated by her.

-He loves swooshy cloaks/capes and big hats. These become a part of his usual attire after be begins working for the Adventurer's Guild, and only ever go away when the situation calls for it.

-He's a little bit vain about his hair. He was never able to grow it long until he became an adventurer, so he's been working diligently to keep it healthy ever since.

-He pierced his own ears when he was fifteen and just a little bit edgy. He likes to mix it up between studs and hoops, but nothing too dangly, or it gets caught in his hair.

-He cannot control his magic very well. He often finds himself using the spells Caldarus has taught him when he doesn't want to be using them. All it takes is for him to close his eyes and breathe in the scent of dew upon the morning grass, to feel that sense of peace and relaxation he's never gotten before coming here --- and suddenly his plants have doubled in height, and so have all the weeds in a 200m radius, making more work for himself.

-He also causes a major thunderstorm on the night of the Star Festival, when Eiland takes his hand and offers to walk him home after their date. The two of them basically slide down the mountain in the mud, laughing the entire way.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

The Beggar's Door: A Retelling of "King Thrushbeard"

Oh, yes, King Gregor had a temper, but in this case, it was more than justified. You see, the king had gone through all the expense of hosting an enormous ball so every eligible suitor on the continent could vie for the hand of Princess Dulcibella, and what do you think she did? Not smile and curtsey and thank them for the honor, that’s for sure. She rejected every man to his face! And not politely! The princess had a tongue like a whip, and she scourged those high and mighty men with every insult you can imagine before declaring she would have none of them as a husband. Some of them were on the verge of declaring war.

So none of us were surprised when King Gregor, in a towering rage, summoned Princess Dulcibella to the throne room the next morning.

Princess Dulcibella was a beautiful maid—fair and willowy—and she walked toward her father with as dainty a step and as innocent an air as any woman who ever lived, humming a traveling minstrel’s tune.

“Daughter,” the king declared. “I have brought you here to meet your husband.”

The princess stopped humming. “Tradition states that a crown princess may choose her own husband.”

“Tradition also states that if the princess refuses all her suitors, she is wed to the first man to come into the king’s presence.”

Princess Dulcibella’s lovely face paled. “You would not be so barbaric.”

“You have left me no other choice.” The king pointed to the grand doors through which the princess had entered—the only entrance that had been left unbarred. “Your husband—the man of my choosing—will enter through that door at the stroke of ten.”

Everyone knew who that would be—Baldric of Eldria, a brute and bore (and, some said, a usurper), but king of the wealthiest nation on the continent.

At his words, a door opened—but not the great door.

In a shadowed corner of the throne room, a forgotten, barely visible door swung open on rusted hinges.

The king whirled upon his chamberlain. “I said all the doors were to be barred!”

The chamberlain was deathly pale. “Tradition states that the beggar’s door can never be barred.”

An old tradition, the beggar’s door, one that said the poor must be able to approach their king for help in desperate need, or else the kingdom would fall. No one had used the door in generations—but the door had remained open.

Through that door came a ragged young man, tattered shoes on his feet and a lute on his back. With a smile, he bowed to the princess, as graceful as any courtier.

“My king and my lady,” he said. “If you can spare a coin for a starving minstrel, I would be glad to repay your kindness with a song.”

He had charm, that ragged clown, and probably a nice face somewhere under the layer of dirt.

Princess Dulcibella smiled upon him—men had crossed continents for that smile—and, in the sight of a stunned crowd in the throne room, the minstrel began to sing.

O, come away, my fine young maiden Though I’ve no place to call my own We’ll wander through the wooded valleys And make the wild world our home

You know the song, but you’ve never heard it as he sang it. He had a voice like love itself come to life—as if he’d come a-purpose for wooing. We all were spellbound. The princess was enchanted.

He sang a verse or ten, and when the song finally faded, the king was the first to remember the purpose of the day. For all the unexpected happenings, he hadn’t forgotten his rage. He’d lost his chance at an alliance, but his revenge upon an ungrateful daughter was still within reach.

“Minstrel,” he declared. “You’ve won more than a coin. According to tradition, you have my daughter as bride to wed.”

The priest emerged from behind the throne—intended for a far more royal wedding. In the sight of us all, the princess and the beggar were bound as man and wife.

“Now, be gone from my house!” the king declared. “You’re a beggar’s wife, now, and can have no place here.”

Dulcibella was stripped of her finery, but somehow she didn’t seem to mind.

The minstrel took her in his arms and carried her out the beggar’s door—gazing upon each other with as much devotion as if they were any ordinary pair of lovers.

With that, they disappeared. I’ve not seen either of them again.

But I’ve heard stories.

Dulcibella was clever, you see, and her maids tell stories of a minstrel who would sing near her window on moonlit nights.

Some say she told him of the beggar’s door.

Some even say that the minstrel was no minstrel at all, but young King Alaric, cast down from the throne of Eldria, living in exile until he can reclaim his throne.

I don’t know what to believe, but I like to believe she’s happy as a beggar’s wife, and I believe there’s no better woman to someday take a place as queen.

King Baldric had better take care.

[writingsbychlo]

HOW TO SAVE A LIFE | rhysand

summary; trapped under the mountain, starfall has always been your favourite holiday and you miss it. tonight, this time, you have one opportunity to share it with someone.

word count; 5577

notes; starfall day 3!! but also, go easy on me, I didn't proofread this. it's like midnight here, I am exhausted, let's not judge obvious mistakes 😅 also, please note, this takes place UTM, and references to rhys' SA are alluded to, so read with caution!!

‘how to save a life’ moodboard

The corridors were utterly silent as you paced up and down. Back and forth, back and forth. Your eyes flickered to the shadows across the floor moving through the open windows, your only way of measuring how much time passed was with the moon’s manipulations. As the shadows encroached closer and closer to the small scuff you’d marked as your limit on the floor, you gave a heavy sigh. 

Your thumb was in your mouth, chewing the nail anxiously, and as that thought came into focus, you removed it, scoffing idly at yourself. You weren’t in trouble. Yet. In fact, you could leave right now, and nobody would have even known it was you, you’d fly right under the radar, as you’d always done, and bring no attention to yourself. 

Who were you kidding? You weren’t going anywhere. Not even as the ceaseless pounding of your heart threatened to crack your ribs, not even as the lingering fear in the back of your mind about what you’d already done to get here made you dizzy. You were waiting it out. 

Your gaze flickered back to the silvery streaks pouring in through the window. 

Time’s almost up.

You finally paused your pacing, staring down at it as darkness crept out of silver, marking your timer. You waited for a second longer, lifting the edge of your dress and poking at it with a scuffed shoe. 

This is it.

You weren’t sure whether it was crushing relief or crushing disappointment weighing you down, that sank your shoulders into a slump that made you feel as though you were holding up the whole world. Shaking out a sigh and loosening your shoulders, that relaxation lasted for only a second, before a dark chuckle emanate from the shadows, and you were whipping around to peer into them. 

You didn’t see him at first, gaping at the darkness until he stepped out, looking every bit like a devil dressed in finery. Purple eyes glowing in the moonlight, the sharp lines of his face like jagged peaks in the dark of the hall, tall and intimidating, with a sinister smirk sat on his lips. 

“You, Little Mouse, are the one who called me here?” Like magic - well, with magic - the letter you’d scrawled in a hurry and slipped under his door mere hours ago appeared between his fingers. Scratchy, torn brown parchment, with other notes and lists and words scribbled out and crossed, reused over and over because it was all you had. 

You steeled your nerves, rolling your shoulders back and tipping your chin up to look at him as he stepped close, close enough to smell the luxurious soap that had your head spinning once again. “I did.”

Your voice only trembled a little as you spoke, and you were proud to get the words out at all. You’d never been afraid of Rhysand, but at this moment, as all that big half-Illyrian warrior and High Lord stood before you, you’d be a fool not to be at least a little intimidated. “For what?” 

He all but purred the words, smirk widening a little more, brows rising at you and his head cocked to the side. 

“A bargain… a fuck… a good look at true power? What could you,” He cast a scornful and slow stare over your body, the torn rags you called a dress, the scuffed and scratched shoes, the messy hair and dirt under your fingernails that made you hide your hands behind your back. “Possibly want from me?”

Your mouth dropped open, words silenced as you tried to work out what to say to him, but his sneer made you second-guess yourself. Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe everything you thought was wrong, maybe-

You didn’t get a chance to think any further, before the sound of pounding footsteps and angry voices bouncing off of the stone walls made every decision for you. If you were caught here, lowly and unworthy up in the higher courtrooms of the mountain palace, you’d be flogged for sure. Worse, they’d be sure to get the truth out of you, sure to get the truth of everything you’d done just to get here tonight. 

For that, they’d kill you.

In a spur of boldness that you’d most likely come to regret, your arm shot out, saving him as well as yourself as your nimble fingers wrapped around his muscle-corded forearm. Even through heavy layers of expensive black silk shirts and embroidered blazers, you could feel him tense at the abrupt contact. Dragging him along behind you, you didn’t hesitate, weaving through corridors and pathways, past floor-to-ceiling windows and being sure to remain out of sight. 

He spluttered behind you for the first few seconds, almost enough to pull a smile at your lips with the image of the terrifying Lord of Night spluttering, but your panic was far too high to even entertain that kind of thought right now. He yanked his arm free, a growl on his lips as your fingernails scratched at the soft fabric of his blazer, surely messing up some of the threads, but right now, your adrenaline was too high to be concerned with such trivial fears. 

Everywhere you turned, voices could be hurried; hurried and panicked and frantic. Boots marched, people corralled out of their way, heels tapping and weapons scraping along the floor as they were dragged. A busy, busy night indeed. 

All your fault, a voice taunted in your head, a tendril of regret finally making itself known as you fled. Despite it all, curiosity seemed to have gotten the best of Rhysand, because he was following you, despite your grip no longer being on him. He could have stopped you, even with all that dark power suppressed he would possess enough to freeze every cell in your body to his command with nothing but a wink, and yet, he didn’t. 

His long legs carried him at more of a fast walk to your hurried run behind you, and you jerked with shock when you felt the sharp scratch of an icy talon, then two, then three, scratched down your thick mental barriers. You could feel a ripple of twisted fascination burst from him at encountering any walls at all, at someone who knew how to track and resist a daemati. 

The tall doors at the end of your final corridor beckoned you forward, with intricate designs etched into the front, and thick wood that would hide you both on the other side. You’d already picked the locks, your feet finally slowing down as relief enough to make you almost collapse as you came to a halt before them. Twisting the knob with a prayer that nobody had somehow discovered your plan, locked them again to keep you out, a shaky laugh left you as the door creaked open with just a little pressure. 

Nothing but inky darkness spilt out from inside, and you stepped into it, welcoming its cold embrace and its camouflage, its protection. He followed you in, stepping through with one graceful stride, and your back collapsed onto it to push it closed, a heavy sigh leaving you as your heart rate began to even back out at last. Now, you could barely make out the silhouette of him before you, but you could feel his presence all around, like a weighted blanket closing in. 

His stare was even heavier, you didn’t need to see those violet eyes to feel the depth of them on you.

You smiled anyway, wondering if he could see you through the dark, another gift those lucky High Fae perhaps had that your lowly kind did not. Your steps were rehearsed, pacing across the room, acutely aware of where he was as he followed, just from the buzz of his leaking power on the air, all the way to the window at the far side of the room. Scraping back heavy curtains on either side of clear glass doors, you’d already picked those locks too in preparation. 

Swinging the doors open and stepping out into milky moonlight on the terrace, you took your first real breath of fresh air in weeks, sighing happily at the cold breeze of the early-Spring night.

The curse trapping you both here shimmered before you, barely an inch from the edge of the stone, and you reached out, never touching it, never risking letting it tell of your true location, but hovering your hand before it, feeling the cruel zap in warning of Amarantha’s boundaries. Never to escape, never to leave, trapped here Under The Mountain.

Your peace was shattered by the rough, animal growl of the man behind you, patience audibly fraying.

“Alright, Little Mouse, I’ve played your game. But, you know how it ends when the cat catches the prey, so what do you want?”

Finally, you turned to face him, hands clenching once again behind your back, hoping this time it would hide the tremor as your intentions were finally to be revealed. “I want nothing.”

“Everyone wants something from me. So, what is it?” He stepped a fraction closer, a snarl curling on his lips, ugly power taking over a handsome face.

“Alright, fine.” You mused, stepping a footstep closer to him as well. “What I wanted… was for you to see the sky.”

He visibly faltered, for all the roles he played and the masks he wore, this one slipped for just a second, his eyes widening as though it was a riddle, brows furrowing even deeper, and scowl twisting to a frown of confusion. “Why?”

“Because it is Starfall tonight.”

This time, his mask didn’t just falter, it crumbled entirely, the façade coming crashing down around his feet as his jaw dropped. His throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly, gaze flicking over you in an entirely new light now, eyes narrowing to assess you but no malice behind those pretty iris’ now. “You know of Starfall?”

“Of course. It is my favourite holiday.”

An unsteady breath rushed from him, like he’d taken a hit to the lungs, eyes widening as he stared. His shoulders slumped, rigid posture melting away until he looked positively world-weary, arms hanging by his sides. It was then that he wiped a hand over his face, realising a tired laugh, and you wrapped your arms loosely around yourself. 

He didn’t recognise you, of course he didn’t you’d been counting on it for this plan to work. You just didn’t realise how cold and lonely actually having that fact acknowledged would make you feel. Rolling up one tatty sleeve of your dress to reveal swirls of blank ink beginning to climb up your forearm from your wrist, his eyes somehow seemed to widen further.

He took your wrist in his hand, your fingers tightening to a fist as a shocked gasp sounded, his touch like fire and warmth and comfort all in one as he gripped you firmly, but cautiously. Turning your arm over in his hold, he pushed your sleeve all the way up to your bicep, tracing the patterns with one fingertip, touch so light it made you shiver. Your bargain marks, messy and rough and ugly, just like the deals you’d had to strike which resulted in them.

“These… these are bargain marks. These are Night Court marks.” He traced again, thumb swiping over the pulse point on your wrist, feeling the race of it under the pad, before lowering the fabric back down to cover them again, and releasing your arm. “The marks of my court.”

His voice cracked, something within you shattering at the sound of it, and you choked down a well of thick emotion as you thought of home, for the first time in a very long while. One a whisper as broken as his voice had been, you uttered; “Yes.”

Too much weight in his stare, too many memories of a place you missed like a lost lover, too many bargains made here just to survive. 

It was all so horrible. 

“I didn’t know. I had no idea anyone from my court was here.”

There were questions loaded in that sentence. How did you get here? Why are you trapped? Who brought you? What was your reason? You wanted to answer them all, but at first, a single shrug was all that came to mind. It was so overwhelming, not only to be standing here, finally talking to the one person who could understand your longing for home, but to be standing here with your High Lord, someone you’d spent centuries admiring, decades pitying, and months plotting for.

This time, it was he who attempted a smile in comfort. It helped.

“I was travelling at the time. Seeing all of Prythian, and finding work wherever I could to find my adventure.” A horrible feeling you’d spent so long crying over worming its way back in. 

You’d spent so long dreaming of getting away from the Night Court, to explore and see the rest of the continent, of the world, and now it was all you wanted to go back. To stay forever, curled up on the windowsill of a cosy apartment that overlooked the glowing lights of Velaris, close enough to hear the music from the Rainbow and hear the happy voices, watch the snow fall or bluebells sprout. You wanted it so badly it ached.

“At the time of…” You waved a hand, throat stinging as you wrestled with emotion, unable to even say the words of this foul curse aloud, even after centuries, “I was working for the Vanserra’s. No one important, as it had always been for me, but they always bring their own staff to the parties. In case you hadn't noticed, Beron is quite high-maintenance, and Eris is terribly paranoid and suspicious.”

A laugh burst from him, rough and grating and unsteady, like he hadn't used it in so long, but it blossomed something in your chest that you thought had died long ago.

“I was one of the lowly serving staff they brought with them that fateful night, to keep Lady Autumn’s glass filled with wine, so she’d never have to lift a single finger. Unfortunately, that meant that when they were trapped, I was too. All that wish for adventure. I got a little more excitement than I bargained for, I suppose.” 

Silence settled, the story hanging between you like mist on the morning air, your head turning and gaze shifting to the twinkling stars overhead. Several minutes seemed to pass as he processed it all, and decided what to say next, a hand skimming your shoulder lightly, as though hesitant to dare touch you at all. “Why did you never come to me, before tonight?”

The laugh that tumbled from your lips was self-pitying and sad. Running your hands over the tatty skirt you wore, it felt obvious. 

He was, arguably, beside Amarantha, the most important person here. You were nobody. He wore a new suit embellished with gold and silver, you wore a dirty dress that had more patches and sewing than the original fabric. He smelled of fresh soap and aftershave, you smelled of bleach from scrubbing the floors and cinders from the fireplaces. He slept in silk sheets on a big bed, all to himself, you’d been sharing a dormitory for ten years with scratchy bedding and broken mattresses. 

And yet, you wouldn't trade with him for all the riches in the world. Your anonymity was all that protected you.

You were nobody. You meant nothing. But tonight, just tonight, you had the chance to be something.

“To what end? We’re both trapped, you have your role to play, and I have mine.”

His smile was as weak and empty as your laugh was. “It’s been ten years. I could have… I could have don’t something to help, made life easier for you, so that you weren’t so alone.”

There was a pain in his voice, a kind of ongoing struggle you’d come to terms with years ago, but it was like a fresh slice across sensitive skin for him. You reached out, hand hovering lightly over his arm, unsure whether or not it was your place. Then again, it was a barrier you’d already crossed in an adrenaline-fuelled panic. Settling your hand lightly onto his forearm, you squeezed gently, hoping it was as reassuring for him as you intended. 

“I don’t know how-”

“It’s okay, truly.” Your throat bobbed, the informality of this whole situation was surreal, only the chill in the air, wind whistling through rips in threadbare fabric keeping you grounded. “I was never alone, it’s hard ever to be alone around here. It was just lonely.”

He hummed, a non-committal response, and his mind seemed elsewhere. A heavy sigh, and then his head tipped back, eyes moving to watch the motionless stars twinkle in the sky. It wasn’t until the third shaky breath and slight sniff, hands clenching by his side, that you realised he was choking back powerful emotions. For you.

“Please, don’t worry for me, my Lord.” Your hand swept comfortingly, twice, up and down his arms, that fist of that hand smoothed out when your fingers brushed his the pulse on his wrist. Words, hanging on the tip of your tongue, dangerous and risky and presumptive, but it felt like the two of you had far surpassed those kinds of barriers by now. “It looks far lonelier and far more hurtful at the Queen’s side than where I am.”

His head snapped back down, all that anguish temporarily banished from swirling violet eyes as he studied you once again. It was like a thousand thoughts flashing through his mind too fast for you to read in his eyes. Your lungs were frozen, burning for air but unable to take any oxygen in, eyes wide and body locked as you waited. He was putting something together, he knew, his lips pressing into a thin line and you didn’t know whether this would flip it all over wrongly. 

His head cocked to the side, licking over one lip, before the edges of his lips were flickering at the edges, just slightly. 

“It was you.”

“What was me?” You’d always been a bad liar, gaze flicking away from his and it was your turn now to let the stars distract you. A talon, scraping at your mental shields again, a warning that he could if he wanted to, break through and you’d never even know. Instead, a single finger hooked under your chin, turning your face back to him. 

“It was you. You, who suddenly unearthed this mysterious prophecy about the human girl breaking the curse. You, who has Amarantha on such a wild goose chase that she has no time for… me. At least, not for a while.” He looked awed now, a reassured expression, and his hand slipped from your chin up, to cup your face. Your throat was tight, painfully so, the simple bit of affection making your eyes water and the truth poured from you in a nod. “You were so scared in the halls, pacing and fretting before I even got there. Your fear was heavy in the air. When you heard the voices and the footfalls, you fled. It was you.”

“It was me.” His breath raced from him, lips parted, and you raised your own hand. Holding his to your face, you stole a few selfish seconds, head tipping further into his palm as his thumb swept over your cheekbone; a few sacred moments of comfort. “Buying you a few hours to yourself on this night was the least I could do, my Lord. You may not have known I was here, but some of your actions, the small mercies you disguise as cruelties, have done more for me than you could ever know.”

“Call me Rhysand. Please.” He was fighting tears, much the same as you were, and his other hand joined the first, holding your face up to his own as he stepped a little closer. The warmth from his body was like a magnet you, swayed toward him, the moonlight glowing on his skin like it was made to decorate him and him alone. “At least… at least, when we’re alone. I don’t want to be anything but myself with you. You see me. You’re the only person down here who does..”

You didn’t have to force a smile anymore. It was the first one that felt honestly genuine in years. His thumbs swept a couple more times, before his arms were shaking with restraint, and he pulled them away. Silence settled around you both. With one more glance at the stars, your arms wrapped around yourself, and you turned back to him. “Enjoy the stars, Rhysand.”

There would be nothing to see, no falling stars and souls finding their way. But, just knowing that it was happening out there, watching these ones stay still and twinkle gently, it was enough to feel connected to home, just for a little while. Stepping away from him, the loneliness creeping back up already felt suffocating, like ice water ready to drag you into the darkness and the depths. 

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your own, firm but gentle, insistent but pleading. “Please- please, don’t go. Stay with me. Spend Starfall with me?”

It was an offer like you could only dream of, to spend Starfall with someone else once again, someone who knew. You had no idea how to say yes, mouth hanging open, but he seemed to get the gist, lips curling into a real smile now. Not the cruel grin he wore every day, not the cocky smirk. This was real, this was beauty and emotions and trust. 

“Yes?”

“Yes. I would like that.” This opportunity could never happen again, and so you weren’t going to let it just fly past like a misguided star. He tugged you back a little closer, letting your hand go when you fell into place by his side, and his body dropped any remaining tension. He rested his hands on the railing, cautious not to touch that barrier of the curse, and tapping the space beside him for you to join. 

You did, the two of you staring out quietly at the vast lands, the bright skies, the empty space; nobody ever dared near the centre of the horrid curse killing the lands.

“I miss the grass.”

“I have a friend… a brother, who has terrible allergies. Even a speck of pollen, and he’s sneezing and eyes running.” A wistful look took over his features, amusement and nostalgia crackling under the surface. “It’s quite the sight to see a warlord sneeze and curse at a flower.”

Your mind followed, reeling a little as the puzzle pieces clicked into place. “General Cassian… has hay fever?”

“Don’t tell him I told you, he’d string me up by my boxers from the pillars of the moonstone palace.” The sounds of your laughter bounced off of the stony sides of the mountain, echoes disappearing into the tonight, mixed with his deep chuckles. A kind of harmony formed, peace, a small bubble of a happy memory like a light amongst so much darkness. You’d look back on this moment for years, possibly decades to come, relishing in the way it felt to smile again, to have companionship and real happiness, even if it didn’t last long. “I miss the smell of the Sidra just after it rains.”

“I miss watching the snow fall at Solstice.”

“I miss the way it would feel after the snow melted, that first truly warm day.”

It somehow became a game, swapping back and forth, each thing you missed. Some were funny, others nostalgic, some were his royal experiences that made his cheeks heat and sweet chuckles leave his lips when you teased him, others had the same experience on you. 

The conversation shifted, he asked you all about your travels, told you of his favourite places he’d seen in different courts, and asked you if you’d ever been there. He told you stories about all of his adventures, as you did for him, watching the moon slowly inching its way across the dark sky as you confided in one another, all your deepest pain and joy and excitement. He told you about his friends, the shadow singer, the general, the terrifying creature from another world. He was so passionate, he loved so deeply, that by the time he’d finished, you felt as though you knew them too, like you loved them too.

Then, when your cheeks ached and your stomach was sore from all the laughing, when every happy memory had been shared, reality set back in once again. 

“I miss home.”

“Me too.” With your simple response, his gaze fixed once again above your heads, so far away and yet you longed to be there.

“It's- it’s just so godsdamned nice, that just one person knows I’m not a villain.” His words startled you, a fresh batch of pain, something deep and primal exposed like an open wound right to the heart. When you turned to face him, he was staring at the stars, but soft trails of moonlight trickled in fat tears down his cheeks. “Sometimes, so many days pass by where I can’t even look at myself in the mirror, where I can’t even bear the sound of my own name, knowing the way it’ll go down in history. This, this night, your company and your kindness, it makes it feel worth it. That just one person will not hate me, for the rest of my life, makes it feel like it's enough.”

When he finally faced you, wet cheeks and red eyes and exposed vulnerability, you gave him the same comfort he’d given you. With hands on his cheeks to wipe away those tears, you gave your best smile, letting his head hang heavily in your palms for a while. “You’ll never be the villain in my story, Rhysand.”

His lip wobbled, and he twisted his head, lips brushing your palm as he pressed a series of fragile, trembling kisses there. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Your shiver wasn’t from the cold, but from his blatant affection. At the act, however, his pained look became dismayed, glancing over your thin attire with disappointment. He stood, reluctantly peeling your hands from his face long enough to slide down the large blazer he wore, and slipping it over your shoulders. When he pulled the lapels tightly around your body, the plush lining, still filled with his body heat, was like wrapping up in front of the fireplace, on the very rare occasions you could steal a minute to do so. 

With a roll of his shoulders, those magnificent wings you’d only ever seen from afar were visible, appearing before your very eyes as though from thin air, as though they’d always been there, only veiled, and you stared unabashedly in amazement. 

Stepping closer, until you were so close your breath bounced off of his chest and you could pick out the threads in his shirt, he wrapped them around you, sealing out cold wind and the rest of the world. 

“Better?”

“Better.” You whispered, and his resulting look of pride warmed you as much from the inside as he did from the outside. After only a brief moment of consideration, you freed one arm, looping it slowly around his waist. When he only tugged you closer, your other arm joined it. Settling your cheek against his shoulder, he moulded his body to your arm, thick arms wrapping around your body in return, sealing you to him in a hug neither of you intended to let go from any time soon. 

His lips traced the top of your head as he turned, a few kisses dotted affectionately along your hairline, drawing happy sighs from you each time. When his head dipped a little further, lips near your temple, it was to quietly murmur, “Would you like to see the stars falling?”

You pulled back, barely a fraction as he refused to let you go at all, but enough to stare up at him. “How?”

“I still have a little of my powers, such as hiding these magnificent wings.” His smirk was positively feline, the nosey Lord having pulled that tidbit from your mind, and warmth raced to your cheeks. “I can show you some of my memories from previous years, if you trust me?”

Another tap of claws on your walls, a soft stroke like a finger over your skin, and you lowered your shields slowly to allow him inside. As soon as you did, you could feel him everywhere. Swarming in your thoughts, filling your head like you were both in there, and giving as much of his feelings away as it did yours. You could feel the relief at knowing someone else’s touch, that lingering guilt for not having known you but the borderline bliss at being here right now. The elation, at being trusted. The joy of having someone to share home with. 

Your eyes fluttered closed on his command, as he began to play the memories over.

Glimpses of parties, of stars and fireworks and sequins and fancy dresses. Twirling and dancing, intoxicated fun, and when you saw Azriel or Cassian or Mor, you felt his love for them like you’d feel your own. It was like seeing it through your own eyes. In this memory, he was making his way through the palace, the House of Wind atop the mountain. 

You’d seen drawings and pictures, of course, glimpsed it from afar on clear days, but nothing had ever compared to these real images of seeing the palace home. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Tall pillars and columns made of marble and moonstone, carved and designed with intricate swirls and stories. Open balconies, large rooms, enough space that it would take you days to learn your way around, and that was just the small glimpses of it you could see now. 

Eventually, he made it to the balcony, one hand braced on the stone as he stared out across Velaris down below, so far and tiny and beautiful, a vibrant ache in your heart as you longed to be back there, one that matched in his own through the connection you’d forged. 

You watched on, as his attention turned to the sky, to the falling stars, glittery and soaring and so close. So colourful up close, you’d never seen such a sight, like being immersed within the colour, becoming a part of nature temporarily, leaving you breathless and high on the feeling. 

You watched and watched, as he once had, what felt like hours slipping by until it came to an end, and your cheeks felt wet when you finally felt him pull back from your mind. Not entirely, no, a piece of him was still lingering there behind your consciousness, a comforting weight, but your senses were all back, like your spirit had sunk back into your body.

“Thank you for showing me that.”

“Incredible, isn’t it?” 

“That stars,” you breathed, “I’ve never seen it so clearly. They were so close, like you could just reach out and touch them.”

He wiped away your tears with one arm, the other still sealed tightly around you, soon to be rejoined. “You can, and when we get out of here someday, I’ll show it to you. I’ll show you so much, give you so much.”

There was nothing else to say, no more words that could fathom this feeling. But, you didn’t need them. You knew that he knew, his presence in your mind was sure to trace it. So, instead, you just snuggled in closer, cheek on his shoulder once again, and eyes sliding closed as you let yourself sink fully into his embrace. 

He needed this as much as you did, a two-way street now opened between your minds, and a selfish part of you hoped he never took it away, that even when you were alone, you’d never be lonely again. That fraction of darkness in your mind flickered, as if making a promise.

“Why? Why did you do this for me?” He eventually asked, the question that had been hovering all night. “When I have done nothing for you?”

“Because, Rhysand, I have seen you from afar. You’ve seemed so empty, lately. I wanted to give you something to remind you to hold on.”

He’s breathless, you could feel it under your own thudding heart as his pulse raced and he panted softly into your hairline, trying to settle. “Someday, I’ll take you home. Back to Velaris, where we belong. I’ll make up for everything you’ve had to go through. You’ll never want for anything, you’ll never be alone again. But, while we’re still here, I’ll make up for these ten years I’ve missed already. What can I do, what do you want first?”

“Those are beautiful promises, Rhysand, and I appreciate them, but I don’t need them. All I want, all I need, is a friend. To not be so alone.”

“Never again, darling. Never again, will I let you be alone. It’s me and you, now.” He squeezed you in, another kiss to the top of your head, and you pressed into it, leaving a single kiss to his jaw in return. “Happy Starfall, darling.”

“Happy Starfall, Rhysand.”

[mortalityplays]

Hi! I really liked and agreed with your post on purple prose, and I was curious what books if any you'd describe as having purple prose. Not even necessarily as shorthand for calling it bad! just examples of it, especially from non-classic literature. Unless the term is entirely subjective lol. Feel free to reply to this ask publicly or privately; I don't mind either way

Have some Conan the Barbarian (sorry about! the racism):

TORCHES flared murkily on the revels in the Maul, where the thieves of the east held carnival by night. In the Maul they could carouse and roar as they liked, for honest people shunned the quarters, and watchmen, well paid with stained coins, did not interfere with their sport. Along the crooked, unpaved streets with their heaps of refuse and sloppy puddles, drunken roisterers staggered, roaring. Steel glinted in the shadows where wolf preyed on wolf, and from the darkness rose the shrill laughter of women, and the sounds of scufflings and strugglings. Torchlight licked luridly from broken windows and wide-thrown doors, and out of those doors, stale smells of wine and rank sweaty bodies, clamor of drinking-jacks and fists hammered on rough tables, snatches of obscene songs, rushed like a blow in the face. In one of these dens merriment thundered to the low smoke- stained roof, where rascals gathered in every stage of rags and tatters—furtive cut-purses, leering kidnappers, quick- fingered thieves, swaggering bravoes with their wenches, strident-voiced women clad in tawdry finery. Native rogues were the dominant element—dark-skinned, dark-eyed Zamorians, with daggers at their girdles and guile in their hearts. But there were wolves of half a dozen outland nations there as well. There was a giant Hyperborean renegade, taciturn, dangerous, with a broadsword strapped to his great gaunt frame—for men wore steel openly in the Maul. There was a Shemitish counterfeiter, with his hook nose and curled blue-black beard. There was a bold- eyed Brythunian wench, sitting on the knee of a tawny-haired Gunderman—a wandering mercenary soldier, a deserter from some defeated army. And the fat gross rogue whose bawdy jests were causing all the shouts of mirth was a professional kidnapper come up from distant Koth to teach woman-stealing to Zamorians who were born with more knowledge of the art than he could ever attain.

Conan is an interesting example imo because it displays a lot of the highs and lows of pulp. Robert E. Howard could also write very punchy, straightforward action, and often did - but part of the selling point for the emerging genre fiction of the era was that it was lurid and lascivious. While the extract above is. Well. Bad. It is worth recognising that within its context it was also kind of experimental.

Howard wrote these drooling, sort of bewildering, sensory passages for the same reason Marvel movies punch you in the face with saturated colours and rapid cuts and a billion VFX. You see it in the work of H.P. Lovecraft too, and I will grudgingly acknowledge that that's something worth recognising about his literary impact. I also think Lovecraft was a pretty bad technical writer, personally, but that's a whole other soapbox.

My point is that a lot of truly purple prose today (in the sense that it is extraneous, distracting, undermines its own function) traces its legacy to this era of pulp where there was a distinct secondary purpose to overwhelming the reader with ornamentation. It was self-consciously indulgent, and strikingly distinct from the more genteel floridity of equally bad literary novelists. For instance, compare the above with the even purpler prose of the famously awful Irene Iddesleigh:

On being introduced to all those outside his present circle of acquaintance on this evening, and viewing the dazzling glow of splendour which shone, through spectacles of wonder, in all its glory, Sir John felt his past life but a dismal dream, brightened here and there with a crystal speck of sunshine that had partly hidden its gladdening rays of bright futurity until compelled to glitter with the daring effect they soon should produce. But there awaited his view another beam of life’s bright rays, who, on entering, last of all, commanded the minute attention of every one present—this was the beautiful Irene Iddesleigh. How the look of jealousy, combined with sarcasm, substituted those of love and bashfulness! How the titter of tainted mockery rang throughout the entire apartment, and could hardly fail to catch the ear of her whose queenly appearance occasioned it! These looks and taunts serving to convince Sir John of Nature’s fragile cloak which covers too often the image of indignation and false show, and seals within the breasts of honour and equality resolutions of an iron mould. On being introduced to Irene, Sir John concluded instantly, without instituting further inquiry, that this must be the original of the portrait so warmly admired by him. There she stood, an image of perfection and divine beauty, attired in a robe of richest snowy tint, relieved here and there by a few tiny sprigs of the most dainty maidenhair fern, without any ornaments whatever, save a diamond necklet of famous sparkling lustre and priceless value.

Christ. Hopefully you can see the depth of the scale here - the Conan extract is muddy and difficult to read, but this is near incomprehensible. Part of the reason this passage is so much worse is that there is even less intent behind the author's use of language. Here, she is working overtime to evoke a kind of dramatic-intellectual style borrowed from writers like the Brontë sisters (imo at least - not an expert, that's just the sense I get as a reader). The further these flourishes get from lending purpose to the meaning of the prose, the harder they are to parse.

BUT my other point is: far fewer writers these days set out to emulate Irene Iddesleigh's arch, roundabout, society conscious voice than they do the hallmarks of classic pulp. We're inured to sex and violence, sin and debauchery in fiction today, so extracts like the Conan example feel even more bloated than they did in their time. And that creates a real pitfall for amateur genre writers: the instinct to pay homage to the stylistic choices of the classics can lead them right into Irene Iddesleigh territory.

Too often, the purpose of these overwrought, leering descriptions isn't calculated to thrill the audience, but to establish a piece in the company of older works the writer admires. And that's what leads to truly purple prose in contemporary genre writing, which makes readers scoff and laugh, which makes authors self-conscious and timid, which leads us here to a point where wordy description is inaccurately identified as the problem. It's not. The problem is excess - and when something has purpose, by definition, it's not excessive.

[irisfixation]

knights getting mindbroken. you agree. enjoy

"She's just ahead. Let's get ready." It wasn't difficult to make it this far. The palace was left in ruins decades ago, and the few guards still under her spell were little more than shambling corpses, easily dispatched by your party. You expected a little more, to be honest: some final bastion of opulence at the place's heart, as it were. But no - here it is, the throne room of the "empress of ruins"'. Once a feared tyrant, now little more than prey to be put upon your sword. If she's anything like her guards, you doubt it'll be harder than any other job.

She doesn't look like the stories. Once, she might have been adorned in all her fineries, hair tied back and dress magnificent. Now, though, she's little more than a haggard, scrawny wretch. You can see the bags under her eyes all the way from the boss door, let alone the rags and stolen traveler's attire she's wearing. One of your party members can barely stifle a giggle.

"Hold it," another commands. "She'll see us if we draw any closer. We should prepare." A tedious task, really, given how easy the journey thus far has been. Still, you acquiesce. One hireling takes a detour in search of something that piqued her interest, another sets about marking spell-circles into the earth beneath, a third makes camp and begins preparing your rations, and so on, and so forth.

You - you scout out at the thresholds of the gate, watching the once-empress as she lays unmoving. You rehearse battle stratagems in your head, reflect on the research conducted by previous adventuring parties, the whole nine yards. "She'll get desperate when she's wounded enough-" you recall, "so conserve your strength until then". You'll cover for the rest of the party to start, and then-

Her glare snaps you back to the here and now. Oh, shit. The tip of your boot has crossed the ruined threshold; you can just make out where the microfilament runes across its border intersect with your foot. She knows you're here.

That's fine, you reassure to yourself. The rest of the party should be ready soon enough - and besides, you're the best of the bunch. You'll hold her down until then. Your armaments gleam in stark contrast to her sorry state as you step forwards.

She lurches forwards, a slow and dreary movement. Fine by you. You take your stance, and call out with sheer heroic might in your voice. "Give it up, would-be empress! Today, your feeble reign finally comes to an en-"

In a blink, she is upon you, barreling with the speed of a starving and maddened wolf. You barely have time to call to your allies and attempt to swing your sword before-

A single outstretched finger presses upon your forehead. Her hand is gnarled and dust-caked, but the point of the nail is pristine as crystal. You watch as the frantic charge of your allies slows to a crawl, then freezes entirely. Time magic? No, it's more like your mind's been trapped within a single moment - like the compressed moment of time spent trying to catch something in mid-fall, magnified hundredfold.

You recoil. And as you do, you feel something worm its way out of you, plucked from your skull. It twists and gravitates towards her, gossamer-thin filament of gold and scarlet, wrapping around her finger like a ring or snake.

The shock of the moment ceases. She's barely two feet from you, and as frail as the dust upon her kingdom - your hands clench upon cold steel, your blade moves to seek her head -

"Stop."

Your body seizes up, arms and muscles pulling to a taut rictus. You can't even bring yourself to fall over in defiance - you feel your limbs pull into the closest approximation of a bow they can manage. She looks at you with icy eyes, and you realize your comrades aren't doing anything. Are they even there? You cannot hear their breaths, cannot turn to look-

"Kneel. Goodness, you were easier than I expected."

"What in hell's name did you- take from me-"

"Your ability to disobey orders," she says, her voice low and measured. She's clearly enjoying hearing herself talk, which sickens you all the more. "The only thing keeping the 'self' from being consumed by the 'other' - your soul. Your free will. You really didn't even expect this much?" "The kingdom," you sputter, "will have your head for this-"

"Silence." Your tongue is stilled in your own mouth; your own breath feels too there, too physical upon your throat and lips, like breathing and swallowing smog.

"The -kingdom- will arrive here too late, if at all," she rebuts. "I never needed anything more than a singular doll to rewrite, after all." She lifts your head to meet her gaze; her smirk does not reach their depths. "And would you look at that - a cocky, self-assured knight, delivered right into my lap. But of course, I only let you down here in the first place because of your incompetence."

Fuck. No wonder the journey had felt so easy, that all the actual moments of drama and risk just happened to work out in your favor. Had she engineered every last one of them? Just for - what, this?

"If I was -actually- worried, I would have vanished before you even arrived here. Unlike you, I actually take my position -seriously.- Now! Beg for me, please."

"of course my goddess please i am yours i am yours forever i'll serve you to the day i die please use me however you wish" The words spill from your mouth before your conscious mind has a say in the matter. "my life is yours it always has been nothing else matters" You try and bite them back, to deny them, but they sear something into you: your mind conjures images of a parasite tunneling down through brain matter.

"Exactly. And I'll keep doing this, one pitiful would-be hero at a time."

She looks down at you again, and you witness her wreathed in a halo of eyes; each reflecting a vision of your life, your loved ones, your family, your life, your memories. A million different reflections of how they could be snuffed out if you dared disobey your new Empress - of how much you possibly have to lose, more than you could ever truly understand-

"There's nothing your little 'kingdom' can do about it. Certainly nothing you could."

She's right. Of course she is.

"Now, please go to sleep for now-"

---------

(the end! for now, anyhow)

[failing-to-write-again]

"Beloved I-"

"Oh, now I'm beloved? Funny I swore I was 'that lady' not a moment ago"

"My love please-"

"Oh no, do not concern yourself with this lady she is perfectly capable of seeing herself to bed"

You mutter as you sit at the vanity removing your finery after a particularly tense ball. You hear the bedding crumple slightly as he sits, noticing from his reflection in the mirror out the corner of your eye as he runs a hand through his hair.

"You must understand that I was trying to protect you. Vampires do not 'date' as such, and in these circles marriage is a contract. You would have been hounded."

You sigh as you feel the pressure alleviated from the adornments left on your head all night. Licking your lips and pursing them as if such physical actions could quell your frustration.

"There is protecting me from hounding and then there is throwing me to the wolves while they fawn over you."

You pause turning your head to the side to look at him not a reflection.

"While you had countless women hanging on your arm and begging for dances I was questioned and harassed by strangers."

"Why didn't you say, who crossed you?"

He stands coming to stand behind you, holding his hand awkwardly unsure if he should touch you in your state.

"I did try, Reiji!"

You spin around fully and stand glaring at him.

"At any sign of approach you shooed me away as I got looked through or glared at like some dirty rag. And then you placated them! 'Oh no, I have no idea who that lady is.' It took your father stepping in to stop one of them biting me when they realised our arrival together was simply coincidence"

Reiji's face shifted from guilt to fury. Looking to the side as he shifts his glasses further up his nose. For a moment only the ticking on his desk and your tense breathing audible.

"Why would he step in. He's the one who ordered I say nothing."

He hung his head, shaking it slightly before gently reaching for you arms and guiding you towards the bed.

"My love you must understand, I had to prioritize your well-being long term."

Biting back tears as he sits you on the bed, you pick at the seams of your gloves. You spat your next words.

"You were so cold, and then you got angry I danced with your father when he was seemingly the only thing protecting me. I was terrified and yet it's my fault? You dismiss me as if I'm nothing and then get angry at me when someone else does your job"

He inhales, as if stalling. Slowly he kneels, his face coming in to view as be tilts up your chin to look straight at him.

"Love, I may have. No I made an error in my judgement on the best way to act to protect you. I should have communicated my approach before."

He shifts bringing you right foot, still trapped in dance heels, to rest over his unbeating heart. Slowly opening them and kissing the exposed skin of your ankle.

"I want to build you, your own world. A life of happiness for you where you need never deal with unfair struggles once more. But to do so I require his approval to give you title."

He leaves the shoe to his side and switches focus to your left foot. Focusing his gaze entirely on the task, finding it difficult to be so vulnerable and not in control.

"I desire no other the way I do you. It infuriated and vexed me to have these feelings pulling me so far from the course. Any woman who has ever approached me before has been dealt with in the same manner. Mannerly but ultimately fruitless words, enough to placate but never crossing a line to anything past passive. Until you"

He lets down your foot after removing it from the tight prison of a shoe you've worn all night. Slipping your hands into his and gazing up at you at last.

"You are my answer and focus. I am drawn to you as though I am the only one effected by your gravity. Do not be foolish enough to think I am a scientist who does not correct after a failed result. In future I will never let you leave my arm all night should you bless me with your company again."

You finally smile, squeezing his hands lightly, and leaning ever so slightly forward.

"You are a foolish man at times dear."

"How could I not be when you call me that so sweetly?"

Magenta eyes swirling with adoration draw you in. He shifts from kneeling with one to both knees to regain some height over you once more, tilting his head and leaning in pressing his lips to yours. A suddenly ungloved hand touching against your cheek. Your arms moved up to ground yourself, gripping his suit's lapels, pulling him closer. After a moment his pulls himself away, his tongue touching his lips as the taste of your lip gloss lingers.

"Am I forgiven beloved? Or will you be 'able to put yourself to bed' hmm?"

His eyes crinkle slightly as he grins at you. You chuff slightly before pulling him in by the collar, of course he allowed you this for once, vampiric strength dulled to allow his human some control.

"You ever call me 'that lady' again and I will choke you with your tie."

"Would you rather beloved or love?"

"My most dear and beloved love, you who brightens my night and whom I beg to receive kiss."

"I do believe you will cause a mass fainting should they hear that."

He climbs onto the bed as you lay back, one arm holding him up the other resting his hand on your waist. Your arms looping around his neck, nails lightly scratching the nape of his neck.

"You forget I can be just as possessive as you my dear. I'm not a massive fan of sharing"

[princesssarisa]

Nicolas Isouard's "Cendrillon": a semi-forgotten "Cinderella" opera

My latest project related to both opera and fairy tales has been an interesting one: I've introduced myself to the 1810 French opera Cendrillon, with music by Nicolas Isouard and a libretto by Charles-Guillaume Éttienne.

Without this obscure opéra-comique, Gioacchino Rossini's more famous Cinderella opera, La Cenerentola, wouldn't exist. In 1814, its libretto was adapted for an Italian opera, Stefano Pavesi's Agatina, o la virtù premiata ("Agatina, or virtue rewarded"), which was staged at La Scala. Two years later, when Rossini and librettist Jacopo Feretti were commissioned to write a new opera for the Teatro Valle in Rome, and they chose Cinderella as the subject, Feretti evidently used Agatina's libretto as the springboard for his own, and the quickly-produced result was La Cenerentola.

I haven't read the full libretto of Agatina yet, just skimmed over it, but it looks like a faithful adaptation of Isouard's Cendrillon, while La Cenerentola makes some creative departures from both. So for now, I'll just focus on discussing the Isouard/Éttienne version.

@tuttocenere, @ariel-seagull-wings, @adarkrainbow

*The plot's basic outline is very much the same as in Rossini's more familiar opera, as are the characters' names, albeit in French forms rather than Italian. The setting is Italy, and Cinderella's love interest, Prince Ramir, is the Prince of Salerno. The traditional wicked stepmother is replaced by a stepfather, the impoverished yet arrogant Baron of Montefiascone (although he's not named Don Magnifico in this version, but just called "the Baron"), and her stepsisters are named Clorinde and Tisbé. As in Rossini's version, the Prince spends most of the opera disguised as a squire, while his servant, Dandini, masquerades as the Prince. And the traditional Fairy Godmother is replaced by Alidor, a wise gentleman scholar who serves as the Prince's tutor. He disguises himself as a beggar at the beginning, and is turned away by Clorinde and Tisbé but shown kindness by Cinderella, and so he resolves to wed her to the Prince.

*Unlike Rossini and Feretti's "realistic" comedy of manners, however, this version is still a fairy tale. Alidor is a magician as well as a scholar and tutor, and he dresses Cinderella in finery and transports her to the ball by magic. He also gives her a magic rose to wear, which makes her unrecognizable to anyone who knows her (so all the confusion in La Cenerentola about the mystery lady's "resemblance" to Cinderella is a Feretti/Rossini invention) and which gives her new confidence and ladylike grace. I find the last detail interesting, because La Cenerentola also has a striking difference, in both the text and the music, between Cinderella's demeanor in her rags (so innocent, awkward, and vulnerable) and as a well-dressed lady (dignified, confident, sweetly commanding). In Isouard and Éttienne's version, this change has a magical explanation; in La Cenerentola, without any magic, it becomes psychological.

*This version also includes the traditional lost slipper, not the bracelet of La Cenerentola, because the French were less squeamish than the Italians about letting women show their ankles onstage. It's described as a green slipper, not a glass slipper, however. I assume they made this change because no one can wear glass shoes safely and comfortably onstage, but the word "vert" (green) is similar enough to the word "verre" (glass).

*In La Cenerentola, I've never been sure if the setting is meant to be the medieval principality of Salerno, meaning that Prince Ramiro is already the reigning monarch (which would make sense, since his father is dead), or if he's the crown prince of the Kingdom of Naples (whose crown princes were titled "Prince of Salerno" much like the British crown prince is titled "Prince of Wales") and just hasn't been crowned king yet because his father's will requires him to marry first. Most Cenerentola productions seem to take the latter interpretation, since they set the action around Rossini's own time, in the late 18th or early 19th century. Isouard's Cendrillon more clearly takes place in the medieval principality of Salerno, however. Prince Ramir is explicitly the monarch already, and referred to interchangeably as "the prince" and "the king" by the other characters. Another medieval touch, which La Cenerentola omits, is that the ball includes a jousting tournament: there, the disguised Prince champions Cinderella as the most beautiful of all the ladies, fighting several opponents who champion Clorinde and Tisbé on behalf of Dandini, and defeating them all.

*Cinderella also shares a scene at the ball with her stepfamily, who don't recognize her. She gives Clorinde and Tisbé gifts of her own jewelry, much like the gifts of citrus fruits in Perrault's version, and gives the Baron a jewel as well to take home "for his stepdaughter" (which of course he doesn't).

*As in La Cenerentola, the Prince and Cinderella first meet at her house before the ball, when he comes in his squire disguise. Unlike in La Cenerentola, however, Alidor is present and immediately tells the Prince that Cinderella is a member of the family, and Cinderella then articulately tells the story of her mother's marriage to the Baron and subsequent death. Nor, unlike Rossini's Don Magnifico, does the Baron ever lie that Cinderella is just a servant or that his stepdaughter died: both he and his daughters freely acknowledge her as their stepdaughter/stepsister. It seems to have been a Feretti/Rossini invention to have the Prince not know that Cinderella is of high birth. Which leads to the next point...

*When the Prince meets Cinderella in her rags, he pities her and remarks on how pretty she is, but he doesn't seem to fall in love with her yet. They don't sing a duet at this point; Cinderella sings an aria telling him about herself. Nor does he get angry or try to defend her when her stepfamily refuses to take her to the ball. It's only when she's dressed in her finery at the palace that they they sing a duet and fall in love. This is another difference that stands out from the Feretti/Rossini version. In La Cenerentola, it's Cinderella in her rags whom Ramiro falls for; their great moment of connection is in their lengthy duet when they first meet, and their interactions at the ball are minimal. He only seems to fixate on "the beautiful unknown" because she looks like the "servant girl" he met earlier, whom he presumably thinks he can't marry because of her "low birth." This changes the essence of the Feretti/Rossini version almost as much as the decision to remove magic does.

*Dandini's portrayal is a bit more mean-spirited than it would be later in La Cenerentola. He's portrayed as stupider and more incompetent, and both the Prince (with whom he barely interacts) and Alidor emphasize that he's the crudest, most idiotic man at court. This is obviously meant as social commentary, since everyone overlooks his faults and fawns over him anyway when they think he's a prince. But considering his actual low status and the glorified portrayal of the real Prince, it does feel a little too harsh at his expense. I prefer his wittier and more cunning portrayal in La Cenerentola, and his rewritten dynamic with Prince Ramiro where they co-conspire and confide in each other like friends (even if Ramiro does still call him "idiot" now and then). Not to mention his hints of flirting with Don Magnifico that the original Dandini doesn't have with the Baron. :)

*Cinderella's departure from the ball is different from both the classic tale and the Feretti/Rossini version too. After the joust, in front of everyone, the Prince and Dandini offer Cinderella the crown and the Prince's hand in marriage together, but without yet revealing which of them is really the Prince. Cinderella still thinks Dandini is the Prince and doesn't want to marry him, so she runs away, accidentally losing her slipper. Again, Feretti/Rossini made a significant change by turning this into a private scene, having Cinderella openly admit that she loves the "squire," and then having her test his love by giving him her bracelet and urging him to search for her.

*Clorinde and Tisbé both have bigger roles than in Rossini's version – each one has her own aria to sing, as well as a few duets with each other – while the Baron's role is much smaller than Don Magnifico's. In keeping with this fact, the comic scene where Dandini finally reveals that he's not the Prince is a reveal to the sisters, not to the Baron as in La Cenerentola. In a "romantic" scene with Dandini, whom they still think is the Prince, the sisters both assure him that they love him for who he is, not for his status, and that they would still want to marry him if he were a poor peasant. But then the Baron bursts in, having learned Dandini's true identity offstage, and reveals everything to his daughters. Then the real Prince arrives too, and proclaims that since the sisters "love" Dandini so much, he commands one of them (the choice is theirs) to marry Dandini that very day. The sisters, of course, refuse to do such a thing.

*The climactic scene is also entirely different from La Cenerentola's version, and a creative twist on the fairy tale's ending too. The morning after the ball, instead of traveling in search of the "beautiful unknown," the Prince invites all ladies of noble birth back to his palace, without explaining why. (This supports my theory that many early stage adaptations of Cinderella had the slipper-fitting take place at the palace, as some early screen versions do too.) Cinderella hears the proclamation and comes to the palace without asking permission, surprising her stepfamily when they meet her there. In her, Clorinde and Tisbé see what they think is the solution to their Dandini problem: they tell her about the whole Prince identity deception, then order her to marry Dandini in their place, but Cinderella refuses. Next, she happens to meet the Prince, who recognizes her as the Baron's stepdaughter he met earlier, but not as the lady he loves. Cinderella pretends to have had a dream where she saw all the events of the ball, and she assures him that "the unknown lady" loved him and only fled because she thought she would have to marry Dandini. The Prince now bitterly regrets having disguised himself, while Cinderella privately laments that the Prince doesn't recognize her and only loves the lady she pretended to be. But then Alidor gathers all the visiting ladies together and announces the reason they were summoned: whoever fits the green slipper will be the Prince's bride. Cinderella then speaks up and insists on trying the slipper on, despite the scoffs and protests of the chorus. Of course the slipper fits, and then Alidor transforms her rags back into the ballgown in front of everyone.

*A general observation, about more than just this opera: French adaptations of Cinderella seem especially prone to have Cinderella come out of her shell in the end, discard her submissiveness, and actively seek the slipper and the prince. We see it in this opera, where Cinderella goes back to the palace in her rags despite knowing her stepfamily will disapprove, flat-out refuses her stepsisters' command that she marry Dandini, and then openly insists on trying the slipper on in front of the court. We also see it in Massenet's later opera, where she calls on her fairy godmother to transport her back to the palace to try on the slipper. Maybe this is because Perrault's Cinderella openly asks to try on the slipper; maybe it also shows the influence of Madame d'Alunoy's bold Finette Cendron. But it's very different from La Cenerentola, where, when she realizes Ramiro is the Prince, she tries to hide her face and run out of the room, only for Ramiro to spot the bracelet on her wrist. Or, as another example, from Russian adaptations like Prokofiev's ballet or the 1947 film, where she not only hides her identity from the Prince, but even tries (under orders) to help one of the stepsisters fit the slipper, only for the truth to out when the other slipper is accidentally discovered in her possession. Not to stereotype different countries, but I somehow suspect this is a cultural difference, with the Italian and Russian writers more concerned about keeping Cinderella "modest" than the French writers were.

*Cinderella forgives her stepfamily in the end, but it's briefer and gets less dramatic emphasis than in La Cenerentola. I suppose several of the changes Feretti and Rossini made – their expanded role for Don Magnifico, for one thing, and their general framing of the story as a morality tale rather than a fairy tale – led to their choice to make Cinderella's forgiveness of her stepfamily a bigger emotional climax than her marriage to the Prince.

Unfortunately, the one complete recording of the opera is out of print, but bits and pieces of it have been uploaded onto YouTube. The musical score is very sweet, lyrical, elegant, and gentle – again, very different from the sparkling florid sound of Rossini. As I mentioned at the beginning, it's also an opéra-comique, meaning there's spoken dialogue between the musical numbers.

I've found it fascinating to explore this opera, both as the forerunner to the more familiar La Cenerentola and as an interesting and charming Cinderella opera in its own right. I think it would be nice to see it revived onstage more often.

[vibingandsimping]

hi there~

Thank you so much for writing my request, I loved it! I don't want to be a bother, but would you mind perhaps writing how Astarion would feel or react to her in awe over the clothing he has made for her? Being that she's poor, she has never seen or touched such rich fabrics before. Perhaps his reaction to her trying them on and being so shy and awestruck by them and his thoughtfulness? I love the idea of an all powerful, evil astarion going all soft for that one specific person. Like the big bad wolf willing to ready to maul anyone before ehim but that one specific little bunny that's just too sweet he wants to protect it at all costs. And the little bunny who knows all too well just how dangerous that wolf is, but believes he will never hurt her and feels so safe with him. It just makes my dumb little heart melt.

If not it's totally okay! I appreciate you even taking the time to answer my first request!

For those reading my posts lately and sending in asks… it may be a few days before I get to them. During my hiatus I received a decent number of asks and am now finally getting around to them. :)

The comment of the wolf and rabbit reminds me of a story. Anyone remember that youtube animation titled “Dear Rabbit”?

The silks lined your skin like a glove. Each seam pressed perfectly and every lace finely crafted. The colors rich and potent with a slight shimmer. The neckline dipping down your chest to expose your neck in it’s entirety. He must’ve spent thousands on this dress alone. The thought made you curl into yourself. Thousands on a dress is absurd. Such money is unfathomable to you. You’re so used to scavenging scraps of copper and silver to get by. You’re not sure whether to be upset or flattered from his spoils. You flatten your hands along the sides of your form. The dress hugs you perfectly and annunciates the curves you do have as well as creating an illusion of more. You do have to give it to him- he has an eye for the humanoid form and fashion. His halls and servants only reflected a sense of elegancy. You stare at the mirror for a few moments more. Taking in the sight and resisting the urge to claw it off. Feeling that you’re almost unworthy of such finery. You closed your eyes with an audible sigh. Running a hand along your head.

When you reopened them you nearly jumped out of your skin. Screaming when you spotted the pale man standing before you. He only takes amusement in your terror and circles his arms around your waist. Astarion presses his face against the side of your head and plants a kiss on your ear. He apologizes softly, almost strained, before eyeing you through the mirror. His hands explore the expanse of your dress and you sit like still prey. His eyes nearly glowing in content with your obedience and how delicious you looked in the fabrics. “Mm, every coin well spent. My dear, you’ve never looked better.” You weren’t sure if that was an insult to your previous poverty or a compliment to how dolled up you were. Either way, you still blushed from the intensity of his stare and voice. His lips connect with your neck and tease the skin with his fangs. It was brief but enough to trickle the icy feeling into you. Shivering as he finally pulls away. “You should get used to this, darling. You will only be wearing the best from now on. Forget the rags you wore before.” He hums and combs his hair with his fingers. You were puzzled on why he didn’t turn you like his other spawn yet. Was it for amusement? Or perhaps he thought you too precious to corrupt in such a way?

Either way, you knew he expected perfection when you arrived at dinner. He had some announcement to make to his palace. The contents of which unknown. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease at that fact. In your time there he’d never hurt you. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to ensure anyone who threatened you was punished. You were almost like a trophy to him. One to polish and flaunt to those around. It was strange to have to adjust from your previous life. All you knew is that you were too far in the wolf’s jaws to escape now.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Like Oliver Twist, as adult as I am, I am desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. Please, Mum, may we have some more Gaslight!AU? It would make for a most Happy Yuletide!

Layers of fabric and you still felt naked.

Even though you were luckier than most in your position. To have such good and loyal friends. People that are willing to believe you. The stares and the whispers were almost too much to be borne.

A new dress. A beautiful lilac and cream confection that made you feel like a princess. With gloves and shoes... finery with a price tag that made you blink. You thought you could do this. But at the first snub, you just can't.

You break from the crowd and slip into the garden. Dashing down the dimly lit path. Anywhere but here. The stable. The boat house. The river. Anywhere you can go. Anywhere you can be that isn't the ballroom.

Tears blurred your vision and it was all you could do to stay upright, let alone see. Colliding with the chest of a man. The muscular chest of a man.

And not a familiar one.

But before you can struggle. Or scream. There's a rag over your face and you can feel yourself going limp. Fading into unconsciousness. Blackness closes over your head like deep water.

__________

"Y/N?" Stephanie called, "dearest?"

"She's not out here," Bruce said frowning, nodding to the footprints. Impressions about that would have been made by someone your size. Running. Drag marks from a ladies' skirt. Inconsistencies from the motions of your hands as you held it. "Get the boys. All of them. Quietly. Then I want you and the girls to look by carriage. Talk to the constables. She's not the sort of girl to run away on her own."

"You think-"

"It's likely," he said, "It's the only lead I have. Her uncle isn't the type of man to sit quietly while his toy is taken away."

"Bastard," Stephanie hissed.

And for once, Bruce couldn't even correct her language. He had several more choice words he'd like to use.

[fieldofdaisiies]

azriel x eris | 5,2k words | warnings: explicit descriptions | masterlist

Azriel drops his hands, resting them on the mattress on either side of his hips. The top-most straps of his leathers are undone. Now that a hint of worry creeps in, he can’t continue immediately. 

He is no newcomer to bedroom activities – quite the opposite actually as Azriel is very acquainted with many practices in the bedroom. But there is one thing where he lacks experience, where he has no experience at all: he has never been with a male. 

A male that is his mate. 

Everything will be more intense. Feel more intense. That is what the mating bond does to lovers.

Azriel’s heart starts to race again, and he feels how his palms turn a little clammy.  

Eris can sense his mate‘s sudden discomfort and asks, “Are you scared?” He reaches for his mate’s hand and lifts it to his mouth, then kisses his palm.

Azriel's throat feels too tight all of a sudden and he needs a small moment to answer. “I‘m worried I will do something wrong,” Azriel sheepishly admits. “I have never been with a male…I don’t know if—”

“Everything will be alright, I know it.” Eris bows his head, a small smile on his lips. “I‘ll make sure you feel good and I have no doubts that in the progress I will feel just as good.”

A delicate, yet ethereally beautiful smile appears on Azriel’s lips that has Eris gasping for air. He swallows, his throat bobbing when he finds himself getting lost in the beauty of his mate. He truly belongs to him, even though it feels surreal. But Azriel is his. His mate. . 

A moment passes where neither of them says something. Eris is giving Azriel all the time he needs, while Azriel silently considers how they shall continue.

Then, after sighing deeply, Azriel finally opens his mouth, the inside a little dry. “Can I…can I undress you?” Azriel clears his throat. “I want to see you.”

Without saying a word, Eris rises and lets his mate do exactly what he requested. Azriel is gentle and careful, a little shy at first and hesitant, all his touches delicate and sensual, his breath held most of the time until Eris stands before him, naked as the day he was born.

Azriel knows that he has never seen a more beautiful and at the same time painful sight. 

Eris‘s chest and back, usually always hidden beneath immaculate finery, are marred by large gashes that have healed, along with many scars, smaller and larger ones. Old ones from his childhood, new ones Beron had only given him a few days ago.

Azriel swallows thickly, feeling both fury and agony within him, and lifts an equally scarred finger, carefully touching Eris‘ skin. His eyes close, lips quavering. “All Beron’s doing.”

“Mhm.”

Azriel places his palm fully against Eris‘ chest, and meets his eyes. “He was a creature.”

Eris‘ hand reaches for Azriel, not the one he has placed on his chest, but the one at his side and he lifts it to his lips, kissing the shadowsinger‘s scarred knuckles. “He was, but he is gone now.” A small smile blooms on his lips that are still pressed against Azriel‘s skin. “You shouldn’t worry about those.”

“But I do worry, Eris.” Azriel sighs. “Because I care. I care about you, Eris and I care about every little scar he caused you.”

The shadowsinger exhales audibly, his breathing a little ragged, and lowers his chin, nodding shallowly. “And I am here to help you forget everything he has ever done to you,” he says as he steps away, his eyes, despite their conversation, glazed over with desire. “I want to erase every reminder of his doing from your skin.” 

Azriel’s bare feet tread lightly on the ground, when he moves behind Eris, assessing his back. His fingertips gently brush his skin, all the scars, smaller and bigger ones, until he lets fingers stroke lower, to the male‘s rear, softly caressing his skin.

“You are beautiful, Eris.” The spymaster steps into him, his lips now on Eris‘ shoulder. “I have never seen a more stunning male before.” He blows out a long breath that has Eris shuddering when it dances over his skin.

“Azriel,” he whispers and turns so they are once again looking at one another. Tears line his eyes, because everything Azriel has said has struck a cord within his heart. 

Eris lets his hand trail up Azriel’s arm, to the base of his throat and then curls his fingers around the Illyrian’s neck. His lids close the moment their lips meet. Azriel gasps softly and Eris loves the sound of it.

“Together we will overcome our fear of fire,” Eris whispers against Azriel lips that are still connected to his own with a string of saliva. “Together we will erase all the memories that have been haunting us for centuries.”

“Together,” Azriel whispers. He kisses his mate so softly as if a feather touches his lips. A surge of heat and passion surges through them, and the bond starts to glow even more radiantly.

“Allow me to undress you, Azriel.” Eris takes a small step back. “I deem it a little unfair that I have not yet been allowed a glimpse of your wonderful body”

Azriel doesn’t answer immediately. Not because he has to think long about the answer, but rather because he is so distracted by his mate’s body, all the strong panes of muscles, the fine dusting of red hair on his chest and below his navel and his cock, now standing proudly and making Azriel’s mouth water. 

He has never seen — he has seen naked males before (his brothers in the birchin) but never like that. He never looked at them like that, it would have been incredibly inappropriate and he hadn’t even thought about doing it. But now he is looking because it is all his. His mate. 

“We can also stop here, Azriel. I won’t push you to do anything you don’t like.” Sincerity laces each of Eris’ words, and he takes Azriel‘s hands into his. “I know you have never been with a male before, I don’t want to rush or pressure you. And I don’t want you to do this because of—”

Azriel quickly stops him, saying, or rather shouting, “I want this! I want you.” His chest lifts with a deep inhale. “I may seem hesitant, but this is only because this is all new for me…but I really want you, Eris.” He claims his mouth in a searing, passionate kiss and when they part, eyes glazed over with lust, locked, he adds, “I really want you to fuck me, Eris..”

He grins, colour blooming high on his defined cheeks when he takes in Eris‘ slightly overwhelmed expression. And in a sensual voice, that is at least an octave lower, he adds the one word that breaks the camel‘s back and loosens all the restraints Eris has had on himself, “Please.”

It takes all of a second for Eris to shove the shadowsinger back against the wall, wings flaring with the impact of Azriel’s back hitting the hard wooden wall. Both their hands start to fumble with Azriel’s Illyrian leathers, trying to get them off as quickly as possible. 

First, Azriel’s jacket is gone when finally all straps are open, and Eris tosses it on the floor behind him. The pants of his Illyrian leathers follow, and lastly his underpants.

Eris gasps audibly, not only at his mate’s size but… “Fuck,” he breathes, “you are beautiful.”

No verbal answer from Azriel’s side follows. He only kisses his mate, lips melding perfectly because they were made for each other.

Breathlessly, they part and Eris holds his mate’s gaze. “Oh Azriel,” he drawls, “you never have to say please when it comes to that.”

Azriel tips his head back with a low, sensual chuckle, a wicked grin adorning his handsome face. “Yet you still like to hear it.”

It annoys Eris the tiniest bit that Azriel is right. Cauldron-damn him, it can’t be possible that he can already read him so well. 

Yet, Eris has to laugh, freely and loudly, and when he calms down, he says, “Shut up and use your mouth for more important things.”

It is all Azriel needs to hear before dropping to his knees in front of the High Lord of Autumn, marvelling at the beauty of mate‘s cock, that stands hard and proud. Azriel’s lips coast down Eris‘ groin, placing featherlight kisses to his pale skin, humming while drinking in his mate‘s scent.

Azriel slowly licks over his lower lip, not once breaking eye-contact with Eris. “More important things, you say?” he drawls, and drags the flat of his tongue over the broad crown of Eris length. “More important…like this?”

His hand braced against the wall behind Azriel, his head tipped back and with a growl leaving him, Eris nearly comes undone at the sight of the shadowsinger on his knees in front of him. He has no idea how he will be able to let Azriel continue. He will fall apart before they even get started, this is just too much, he knows this.

Eris lets his free hand drop to Azriel’s chin, grasping it between his thumb and forefinger, tipping it up. A sensual grin appears on his lips when he says, “You are mine, Azriel. Say it!”

Azriel grins in answer – a sight that makes Eris’ knees wobble.

“I‘m yours.” The same lips that uttered these words fasten around his cock only seconds later. Azriel sucks him gently at first, having to find out how this is done. He has always been on the receiving end, never given that sort of thing. He takes Eris a little deeper, gagging and then coughing when the tip of his length hits the back of his mouth.

Eris chuckles softly. “Shadowsinger.” His thumb strokes over Azriel’s cheek, who looks up at him through lowered lashes. “Go slow.”

Azriel runs his hand down the length of Eris‘ shaft with the next sucking motion. His lips are soon slick and swollen, both with precome and saliva and he tries once again to take him a little deeper. 

"Oh fuck." Eris‘ lids grow heavy, his mind entering a stage of tranquility whenever Azriel creates magic with his tongue, allowing him to drive deeper into the wet heat of his mouth. But despite the weight of his lids, he manages to hold eye contact with his mate, and uses one hand to brush a few strands of hair out of Azriel’s face. 

He can’t tear away his gaze from his mate’s eyes – the pupils have darkened with desire and seem even more endless and beautiful than before. 

And as he stares, Eris tries to keep his thrusts shallow, holding his hips still to not pound too hard into Azriel‘s mouth, but when the shadowsinger’s nails pierce into the flesh of his ass, there is no more holding back. He gives into the carnal need to truly claim him as his, to fuck him.

Azriel’s eyes start to water, but he takes everything his mate gives him, until the High Lore of Autumn comes with a shout that bounces off the walls and reverberates through the spymaster of the Night Court. 

Azriel swallows greedily, licking him clean and then looks up at his mate with nothing but love in his eyes.

"You are…" Eris is speechless. And breathless, but he tugs Azriel up and seals their lips, kissing him hard and deep, tasting himself in Azriel’s mouth. “Let‘s continue in bed!”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

“Azriel.” Eris presses a hand against the shadowsinger’s chest, his cock painfully throbbing even now that it is squeezed in between their bodies. “I am a new High Lord, my powers are fresh and strong. I will try, but I can‘t promise I will be soft.”

He has tried before. But he failed. He fucked Azriel’s mouth and even though he could take it, Eris isn’t entirely sure if didn’t hurt him. 

Azriel threads his fingers into the High Lord‘s hair, and tips his head up a little. A cruelly beautiful grin spreads over his face and he says, his voice dropping an octave, “Who said I like it soft?” He leans up to kiss his mate‘s jaw. “Fuck me like a High Lord would fuck me. I want it and I can take it. Have all your wicked ways with me.” Azriel lowers his head into the soft pillows and a grin spreads over his face. “I‘m fully yours.”

Eris' lips are soft and warm and when they part, he allows Azriel’s tongue to slip inside. Their tongues tangle, battling a little for dominance until they fall into a perfect rhythm. A moan leaves Eris at the feel of Azriel’s lips against his own. Where his hands are calloused and rough, the spymaster‘s lips are soft, almost silken, pillowy against his own.

"I know what you said, but nonetheless I‘ll try to be gentle, Azriel." Eris feels the soft tickle of Azriel’s breath on his nose, before he sits back on his heels. "I don’t want to hurt you."

Azriel slides his hands up Eris thighs in a languid motion, eyeing the High Lord‘s hard length, mouth watering once again at the sight and the prospect of what is about to come. "I know you won’t hurt me," Azriel says. 

Warmth blossoms in Eris' chest, sparks igniting in his heart and now also a kernel of nervousness comes alive within him – he is worried he will hurt his mate. 

Hesitantly, he reaches for the small bottle of oil, coating his hands first and then his length. Azriel watches him through a heavy-lidded gaze, lips parted in silent admiration.

Eris is consumed by heat as he leans into Azriel, kissing him softly, while gently working his mate open with his fingers first, using more of the oil, before positioning the tip of his cock at Azriel’s entrance.

"You really want this?" Eris asks, his fingers gently travelling down the side of Azriel’s face.

"I do," Azriel confirms, shifting only a little but making Eris slide in the slightest bit. 

"Fuck!" He gasps loudly, his body tensing and a hint of pain passes over his face. His fingers curl around Eris’ biceps, nails digging in. "Don’t stop." 

Eris follows his mate’s request, slowly letting him adjust before moving any further into him. 

This is their first time. Their first time as mates. They need to savour every small moment of it, fully devouring the moment they share, their bodies finally coming together. Golden tendrils start to weave its way toward the other male, tangling with Azriel’s shadows, the bond glowing brightly within their souls, reflecting in their eyes.

Once settled, and after checking in once more with Azriel if everything is alright, Eris sets a soft rhythm, carefully pumping into his mate. 

"Does that feel good?" the High Lord asks.

Azriel‘s lids slowly open. "I have never felt so good, Eris. You—fuck!" He throws his head back with a loud groan when Eris curls his hand around Azriel’s cock, stroking him while still moving inside him. 

"I?" Eris rasps.

"You fuck like a god." A lazy grin spreads over Azriel‘s face. Eris returns the grin and begins to move a little faster — his rhythm still affectionate and luscious. Azriel’s back arches, knee jerking up and mouth falling open and a deep groan leaves him.

Eris finds himself marvelling at the fully blissed-out look on his mate’s beautiful face and has to grin. This is perfection, he realises. 

The feel of Azriel around his cock, the shadowsinger’s sensual noises, the sight provided to him in combination with Azriel’s scent, rich and musky, almost tips Eris’ over the edge, but he needs to be strong just a little longer. He doesn’t want this moment to end too soon. And he wants Azriel to come first.

"Let go, shadowsinger," Eris drawls, stroking him harder. 

Azriel doesn’t have to be told twice, he is almost at the edge, barely able to hold back any longer. So he lets go. 

His come coats Eris’ hand and his own chest, and this is when all restraints Eris had on himself break.  

He bends over Azriel, claiming his mouth in a searing kiss and against the spymaster’s lips, he says, "I‘ve wanted this for so long." He kisses him again. "I have been waiting for this for so long. I have been waiting for you for so long."

Eris‘ knees buckle, a shudder courses through him when he sucks the skin of Azriel’s throat between his teeth. He needs to let everyone see that Azriel is his. They may have not yet accepted the bond, but Azriel is his, and everyone should become witness to that and see the marks Eris leaves on his skin.

The High Lord’s cock twitches at the sight of Azriel writhing beneath him, riding out his own high. The shadowsinger’s can sense his mate’s nearing release and his right hand brushes up Eris’ chest until he places his palm flat above his heart. 

"Let go," Azriel whispers. "Fill me up and claim me."

Eris’ muscles tighten, his nerves are on fire, his skin prickles and then the dam breaks and release washes over him like tidal waves of pleasure, drowning him wholly. 

But Azriel is there to catch him, to help him swim. The growl that erupts from deep within him rattles the whole Forest House, shaking all of the furniture, the cutlery and the windows.

The High Lord gets no chance to catch a breath. Not when Azriel is on him a second later, kissing him languidly, sloppily and Eris knows that this was only the beginning of their love making. The starter and the main course will be served in a moment.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Eris is quickly rock-hard again when Azriel’s fingertips trace the dips and swells of his lower abdomen. “How do you want me?” Azriel groans, rocking his hips against Eris’ thigh, letting him feel just how aroused he is while placing a trail of kisses down his neck.

“Just like this,” Eris mumbles and his right leg jerks up the moment Azriel’s broad hand grasps him, calluses adding the perfect friction when he strokes his palm up and down his engorged cock.

“Just like this,” Azriel repeats, grinning into the skin of his mate. He brushes his thumb over the tip, collecting the bead of liquid. “Later I would really love it if you fucked me against—”

Knock!

“My Lord?”

Knock!

Eris almost sends a burst of fire through the door, turning whoever is out there and disturbs him and his mate into dust. But he opts for the more proper response and throws his head back with a groan, then in a voice he tries to keep level, he says — or rather shouts, “Not now!”

“But you have a visitor, my lord.”

“Send them away! I have important business to tend to — I‘ll be available in two or three days.”

“It is really important.” The sentry’s voice trembles and Eris can practically feel how much he hates being outside this door. The sentry knows exactly what they have been up to in the past hours, or days — time has become a blur, and they have lost all sense of it in their frenzied love making.

“It can’t be more important than this,” Eris grumbles and turns his head to kiss the shadowsinger‘s head. “Nothing is more important than this.”

Azriel chuckles lowly, curling his fingers tighter around Eris’ shaft, stroking him hard. His tongue pokes out, collecting the small droplets of sweat on Eris‘ neck

“It‘s your mother, my lord. And your brother. Lord Lucien.”

Everything stops, and even Azriel drops his hand. The shadowsinger doesn’t like Lucien, but he knows how much the clever fox probably matters to Eris. 

Eris is his mate, so whatever concerns his brothers will from now on also matter to him. Be important to him. 

“I—”

“Go!” Azriel sits up in bed and tilts his head at Eris. “Go see your brother.”

“We‘ll continue that later.” Eris rolls off the bed and hurdles to the dresser for a pair of breeches. “I‘ll—”

“We have all day and all night to make love, Eris. And the following days. I‘ll stay right here, naked and ready for when you return.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Nervousness kicks in at full force the moment the new High Lord enters the throne room through the backdoor.

He is greeted by his mother who immediately pushes up from her chair and runs to him, the edge of her dress bunched and held in one hand.

“He is only gone half a day and this court already seems brighter and more alive,” are the words she says upon greeting her eldest and when a loud sob leaves her, her arms wrap tightly around Eris, pulling him flush to her chest.

He is so relieved to see her healthy and fit. Azriel told him about their journey and her arrival in the Night Court, but he could only fully believe that she was well once he saw her. Now he feels at ease. 

“It is over,” she says, her voice trembling while holding him safely. A few teary, and whispered words are exchanged, almost like neither of them can believe that the nightmare is truly over, and the horrors that haunted this house for as long as Beron lived are no longer.

It takes them a while to part, both their face blotchy, eyes swollen and damp, when they step away from each other. She drags in a deep inhale and her gaze shifts to the door. 

“I‘ll give you two some space.“ Imale cradles the edge of her dress in her hands. “I know my way around here, Eris, I‘ll find something to do in the meantime.“

She brushes past her oldest, and Eris needs a moment to calm his rapidly beating heart before he can do anything. He has no idea if the sight of Lucien back in the Autumn Court will break him, or if it will heal a part of his soul and he knows he will only find out if he dares to look. 

Lucien is still standing in the doorframe when Eris eventually lifts his eyes to him. 

They are brothers, and have always been and will always be. But centuries of distance, old cold and open wounds lie between them. You can’t just simply erase that and make up.

His little brother doesn’t give him an answer, only stares at him through one eye that is fine and one made of metal. Eris himself should have torn out Amarantha‘s throat for that, but he was too much of a coward to do so. Just like many times in his life.

“Congratulations on becoming High Lord,” Lucien eventually says, his voice cold, void of any kind of emotion and it breaks Eris‘ heart. In all those years, he should have tried to find him, to check on him, and didn’t do so. He can’t blame his little brother for his indifference now.

“I understand this isn’t easy for you, Lucien,“ Eris says, untangling his fingers and then folding them again. “That‘s why I appreciate you coming here even more.”

Deep inside, though, Lucien knows that his older brother has a good heart and that is why he is here. He wants to see it, wants to see his brother's good heart. Wants to see his brother. Wants to have his brother back in his life.

Lucien takes a few steps inside, his heart pounding in the same rhythm as his footsteps sound on the floor. 

Eris is almost shaking — this moment is more intense than he has ever anticipated. He only wants to hug his little brother, explain and ask for forgiveness. Nevertheless, he knows he is not deserving of it.

Eris‘ gaze meets Lucien's with a mixture of longing and apprehension. They are brothers, bound by blood, and yet there are centuries of distance between them. 

How do you start anew? How do you make up for all the time that has been missed? How do you forgive?

The brothers' eyes lock, and for a moment, the world around them fades away. 

The weight of their unspoken history is palpable, a heavy cloak that lies over both of them and is a heavy weight on their shoulders. The silence is almost unbearable, a tension that stretches between them like an invisible thread threatening to snap.

A flicker of unspoken emotions passes between them, a shared feeling of the wounds they have gotten over the years and the time lost between them. 

Lucien takes another step forward, and Eris inhales sharply.

Vulnerability, but also hope is etched upon the new High Lord's features as he keeps his gaze on his younger brother. Little Lucien — now a grown male, strong, powerful. And he has missed all of that. Has not seen him grow into the male he now is. 

As their gazes hold, the walls of the Forest House, and the woods outside seem to fade into the background, into insignificance, leaving just the two of them. Eris doesn’t even think about his mate, waiting for him in his bed chamber. This is about his little brother, and no one else.

"I often found myself wondering if you would come here ever again." His throat starts to burn when he sees the pain in Lucien's eyes. His little brother is closer now, and he can sense every little emotion within him.

"You are my brother, Eris." 

It is not exactly an answer to what he said, but it is all Eris needs to hear. A single tear rolls down his cheek, the back of his mouth aching. He also takes a step forward, and inhales sharply. 

"We've taken different paths, but somehow I knew we would always end up on the same one when we're older again, Eris." 

Lucien slowly removes his hands from his pockets, not once breaking eye-contact with his older brother. 

"I hurt you, Lucien," Eris' voice trembles, thick with emotion, as if teetering on the edge of tears.

"You ensured I was safe after what…he had done to Jesminda and I had been exiled." 

Eris marvels at the strength his little brother has gained, standing before him now, talking about Beron, Jesminda, and about what had been done to him. 

"I did, but I should've done better. I should have done more, fought for you to stay, protected you better."

"No," Lucien's voice is resolute, a mix of strength and compassion, as he steps closer to Eris. "You did everything you could."

"No, I should have risked my life for my little brother, Lucien. If you were dying on your knees I should be the one to rescue you. If you were drowned at sea I should be the one to give you my lungs so you could breathe. I should have been the one to keep you warm and safe. I should have protected you with my life." Eris' voice breaks, his hands curling into fists at his sides as more tears stream down his cheeks. But he ignores them and continues. "I should have been the bigger brother you deserved."

A small, sad smile tugs on Lucien's lips, then he scrunches his nose a little and sniffs.

"You can be this brother now. From now on, we'll be carrying each other until we say goodbye on our dying day."

Eris cautiously opens his arms, a mix of regret and longing in his heart. Lucien steps in, his eyes now wet as well, mirroring the emotions Eris feels.

He wraps his own arms around his older brother, and it feels so oddly familiar. 

Their hug is like a strong connection, a way of saying things without speaking. Eris holds his little brother tightly, tears streaming down their faces as they find comfort in each other's presence. It's as if the hug is healing the wounds of the past, of the centuries they lost, the centuries without the other one being present. 

As they hold onto each other, Eris and Lucien share a moment of understanding, they let their emotions run wild, and allow themselves to be vulnerable.. 

"Though we don't exactly share the same blood, you're my brother and I have never stopped caring about you. I’ve never not thought of you, or your safety," Eris says, voice weak and shaky. 

"No matter who my father is," —Lucien leans back a little, leaving the embrace— "I will always be your brother."

"After everything that has happened?"

He reaches his hand up to grasp Eris' shoulder. His features are stern and slightly cold, but his heart is slowly healing, the wounds finally sealing. “Yes, after everything that has happened, Eris."

"Thank you for coming here, it is a big step, I know this. This place…the memories."

Lucien bows his head, his eyes flickering with unspoken words.

"Will you—" Eris lifts his hand to his mouth, coughing, then clearing his throat. "Will you be staying for longer?"

This time, Lucien shakes his head. "No, no, I won’t. I think I am not yet ready for that."

"I understand."

"It is not only because of this place, Eris, but I‘m an emissary. I need to head to the Mortal Lands for…emissary business."

"That’s alright." It really is. Eris only wants what is best for his little brother, and for him to feel comfortable. 

"But I want us to talk again. Talk about everything. In peace. Just the two of us. Maybe in a different place — or court."

Eris exhales a long breath, his chest heavy, although his heart seems to feel lighter after their conversation. He smiles a little when he lets his gaze run over his little brother, who is no longer so little. “We will talk. About everything and I will explain everything to you.” He sighs. “I can’t quite— it doesn’t seem real that you are ready to forgive me and be my brother again.”

Lucien smiles in response.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

“Where were we?” Eris pulls down his breeches, his shirt already discarded.

With a chuckle slipping through his lips, Azriel pushes up on his elbows the moment his mate pulls back the blanket and climbs onto the bed, consequently also on top of him. 

“You held your promise,” Eris smirks, lying down atop Azriel, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Still naked and ready.”

He rocks against the spymaster and manages to elicit a sound he has come to love in the past hours, a sweet and simple moan.

When he leans in, though, to steal another kiss, Azriel stops him by placing his hands on Eris shoulders, then letting them travel up so far that he can cradle his face. “Tell me about your meeting with your mother. And your brother. Tell me everything, High Lord.”

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[ashlingiswriting]

do i know you? chapter three

[ 3k words ] [ prev chapters: one, two ] [ masterlist ] "it’s an unfamiliar sensation, not being able to completely read him. it skitters over you like static electricity." richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn

you’re on call every day from eight at night to eight in the morning, so by the time richie rolls up, you’ve usually just eaten a late breakfast and he’s heading home after work. there’s a consistency to his late night appearances, a rhythm that becomes comforting.

there’s no pretending and no politeness—what would be the point? they should invent a word for this. maybe childhood-friend-in-law would do, except you had a snowball’s chance in hell of ever marrying michael and you always knew it. that’s the feeling, though. familiarity comes built in. even when he gets truly infuriating, you don’t leave feeling worse than you did. more pissed off, sure, but never worse. it’s a distinction worth noticing. 

some nights are easy. you talk about questionable obscure music in which you really do not overlap or middling mainstream music in which you do, running out of concerts and context. sometimes it’s pure bullshit, gossip or make believe, starting up elaborate jokes too lame to admit to in front of anyone else, then discarding them when they’re outworn. sometimes it’s old stories, sometimes it’s pure speculation.

hand to god, some nights are good.

and then there’s this night.

.

.

.

you’re barely out the front door when richie calls out, hey. where the hell were you?

you got called in real early yesterday, so you missed seeing him last night. but that’s no cause for him to yell, the entitled little jerk. you shoot him a baleful glare. then, as you take in the sight of him, you settle a little.

he’s not truly angry. you’ve spent enough time with him now, you’d know.

with a shrug, you shove your hands deep in your pockets and come stand beside him. 

last night i had to smoke all by myself like a fuckin loser, he says. 

that's your cue to say, you are a fuckin loser, but you don't take it.

he offers you a drag on his own cigarette, and you shake your head. you want it bad, but you can’t. you all but smoked yourself to death between crises yesterday, and you’re trying to convince yourself now that giving it up will somehow fix things. 

but nothing will be fixed, and it’s not your responsibility anyhow. this is not your city. you’ve felt that acutely of late, as each of your last links to it is broken one by one. coke or the cops, what difference does it make? the caruso kid didn’t listen to you, didn’t listen to anyone, and once his infection got bad enough, his wife called an ambulance. it’ll be the cops for him if he survives, and his father after that, the next domino to fall. you yourself are somewhere in that long line, just waiting for your turn. 

work sucks, huh, richie says. 

you look over at him to find that he’s already looking back at you, a little sleepy but not good enough an actor to hide the keenness in his observing eyes. it’s dangerous that he noticed you were gone and it’s dangerous that he’s noticing you now, but it feels really, really fucking good. 

yeah, you say. i thank god every day that i am a woman of leisure.

he laughs. well, i’m just grateful that you allow yourself to associate out with me, you know. me in my rags and you in your pearls and finery. he gestures at your sweatpants and gigantic parka.

once my tiara’s back from the cleaner’s, it’s over for you, you say.

sure, and i’ll be crying my eyes out in a pint of cherry chocolate chip. 

with that, he launches into a long, winding tale about the shenanigans he pulled at the beef today, installment nine hundred and seventeen of his neverending battle with a guy named fak. you’re not following, but you’re not trying to follow particularly hard, either. you’re too tired, and you’ve got other shit on your mind.

that’s the closest richie has gotten to mentioning your job in weeks. 

used to be that he’d poke around with dogged persistence, as though he thought he could needle you into submission. he asked after your boss’s health, your credit score, your childhood high school. he complained he had to take a shit or that it was too cold out to stand around. all that. anything to invade, get inside, get a little more information. 

michael was like that, too. the difference between the two is that michael won. conquered you, most if not all of your secrets, and fell asleep in your bed long before even a month had passed. but richie’s been at it for a few months now and he seems to have given up. he doesn’t know your job, your last name, or your phone number. he could pick you out of a lineup but he could never track you down. and he’s decided to let that go.

it’s just as well. you’ve got leftover dim sum in the minifridge right now, and if he pushed hard enough, you’re pretty sure you’d take him up to share it. siu mai re-steamed and slices of lo bak goh re-fried in hot oil in a pan, savory and delicious, nothing better. you can’t cook, but you’d still feed him well if given half the chance. you’d arrange the table with takeout napkins and your only two sets of matching cutlery, you’d—

the real richie rudely interrupts your thoughts. 

you’re not even listening to me, are you, he says. 

no, i’m not, you admit without an ounce of compunction.

just like everyone else, hey? fan-tastic. there’s a real bite to the way he breaks the word in half.

you look at him, startled and stung. don’t be such a fucking baby.

man, fuck you, he says. real anger, rocketing out from his chest. 

fuck you! you stare at him, legitimately astonished. maybe it’s your fault for not paying attention, but you really have no idea where this is coming from. you’ve been good. maybe your mind strayed for a while tonight, but what about every other night? you’ve always listened, or at least pretended to listen, to the travails of his divorce, his money problems, his insane workplace, his dysfunctional quasi-adopted family. and there’s a hell of a lot of it. you’ve been really fucking good!

apparently, not only has he not noticed this, but he thinks he’s entitled to even more.

you say, what do you expect here when you’re going on for eons like fucking always. do you think this is fun for me?

well, someone has to talk since you won’t say shit about shit with that paranoid secret agent—

oh, fuck. something about the way richie cuts himself off. you dread whatever he’s got to say next.

he says, what’s that supposed to mean, do you think this is fun for me?

jesus christ. you fumble in your coat, only to remember that you threw away your last pack. i don’t speak in fucking riddles, richie, this is not that type of situation.

then what type of, like. his face wrinkles in horror and disgust. am i a charity project? 

this is like having a migraine, but worse. i never said… truly, what the hell is going on? how did you even get here? 

dredging up the last of your energy, the emergency fund, you turn it into bravado, your default response to an unexpectedly angry man. you give it your all cause that’s the only way to do it, turning and facing him head on, putting your shoulders back and standing square over your own two feet. 

what is this, richie? you wanna fight? you really wanna fight?

yeah, i think i do actually, says richie, alarmingly ready. i think i really fuckin do. 

fine, you spit. 

you tilt your chin up so you can look him square in the eye and you give him the worst you got, spiteful already, and then you start trying to anticipate his next move.

there’s a lot of things he could say, as it turns out, a lot of things that only he could say, because he was there for everything. he witnessed the aftermath and attended the funeral. he could have you skinned like a caught rabbit given half the chance, and you just handed it to him on a silver platter. 

besides, he has a right. he loved michael even more than you did.

the realization dawns on you far too late, and then the dread sets in. can he see it in your face? when he opens his mouth, you’re setting your jaw so you don’t flinch. 

forget it, he says flatly. he turns away a little, steps back to lean against the building, and in the shadow of the building all you can see is the shape of him. if you concentrate, you can make out his profile against the gray concrete. 

.

.

.

at first, you can’t quite believe it. it’s mercy, after all, and that’s rarely reliable. but after his last cigarette, richie folds his arms tight across his chest and tilts his head back, eyes looking up towards stars that neither of you can see through the city lights.

eventually, you do start to think the mercy is real. you test it.

can i have one? you say.

richie doesn’t even hesitate. he reaches into the left pocket of his tracksuit pants, produces a pack, and hands it over. it turns out to be brand-new box of menthols. 

you look at it for a moment. your throat’s doing that thing again. he really did notice that you weren’t here last night, huh.

i don’t do charity, you say, after a second.

it’s fine, forget it, he says. 

i don’t, though. you don’t know what to say, but you know you can’t leave things there, so you keep pushing, and the words just come out. richie, i’m—i’m really a piece of shit. 

he looks at you directly again, but this time it’s a question. he doesn’t try to negate it with a brainless autoresponse like ‘no you’re not.’ he just listens, plain and simple. for a second, you’re at a loss. 

sudden and frightening as a car crash at the next intersection, the impulse flashes through you: tell him the truth, the whole truth. test him for real, watch that mercy melt away, inevitable as ice on hot pavement. teach him to hate you like he should. it’s like strong hands digging their fingers into your shoulders, the thought, and you’re reeling.

i… you swallow, smash it down, yank the car back onto the road. i hate ice cream and babies and long walks on the beach, i hate old ladies and libraries. you look over at him. i kick dogs every chance i get. 

there it is, at the corners of his mouth.

heartened, you go on, nearly tripping over your words. like, small dogs, richie. puppies. right in the head, i kick them. 

now you’re both smiling, and the relief is so fucking crazy. you’ve fought with him so many times before, but you’ve never gotten scared by it before. this is a first, and you have no idea what to do. all you can do is repeat, i don’t do charity.

okay, he says. okay.

you lean against the wall, and you’re absurdly heartened when he does the same right next to you. something about the symmetry, something about the weight off. you finally light up one of the menthols, and you have the night with richie back again. the breeze brushes by, chilly but not unbearable. it’s perfect.

what happened today? you say.

i thought you’d like it, he says. it was funny. 

go on, then. 

you wonder if richie might try to make you say please, but he doesn’t. he walks you through the whole day of catastrophes, from the broken toilet to the loss of electricity, from the loss of electricity to the fucked-up fridge, from the fucked-up fridge to the outdoor grill—

that’s really cool, you say.

he grins. right? 

whose idea?

from his crooked, exasperated smile, you know it wasn’t his. 

syd’s, he admits.

you raise an eyebrow. so i take it the culinary institute is good for something.

he scoffs. no way they taught her that. that—he points at you—was pure chicago.

oh okay, so we’re giving the credit to the city.

yeah, we are, cause it’s like—

the city, not the woman.

it was very chicago of her! that’s a compliment. don’t make it a feminism thing. his voice matches yours, a near-laugh ribboning through it like fudge in ice cream.

alright, okay. you’re smiling like a fool and you couldn’t care less. so then what?

so turns out fak’s connect isn’t much of a connect, surprise surprise, and it’s gonna cost us fifty-five hundred just to get the fridge back up and running. so he and carmy come to me, all hat in hand, and they’re like—shit. i didn’t tell you about the dealing, did i? you got me all turned around.

didn’t tell me bout the what now?

fak snitched on me earlier, told carmy i was dealing in the alley back behind the beef. i’m not moving much weight, just like. he gestures vaguely. covid, he adds, like that’s an explanation. please don’t have a fit about this, i’ve had all i can take from carmy already.

you shake your head once, thinking hard, processing. the more you think on it, the more it unsettles you. 

i knew he was dealing, obviously, but i didn’t know about you, you say. after a second, you add, richard edgar jerimovich?

jesus, he mutters.

is that right?

and here i thought carmy was going full mom. edgar, jesus fucking christ. richie’s torn between aghast and amused. where’d you get that from?

that’s your middle name?

yeah, but—

you hold up a hand, not rude, just asking him silently to let you finish, and he does. 

richie, you broke your wrist when you were twelve trying to play tackle football with the big boys on asphalt. at some point in your thirties, you started getting a rash every time you ate shellfish, but you still do it anyways, ‘cause fuck it’. and to this day you hate nightmare on elm street cause he convinced you to watch it with him when you were both way too young. 

none of this richie told you himself. it all came straight from michael. 

you say, how do i know all that, but i didn’t know you were dealing? 

richie says nothing, so you look over and find him watching you already. it’s an unfamiliar sensation, not being able to completely read him. it skitters over you like static electricity. 

you got a pretty good memory there, huh, he says.

it’s coke, right?

it’s just coke, yeah. was coke. it’s over now. richie shrugs wearily, turns away, and stubs out his spent cigarette on the concrete wall. mikey and his fucking secrets. i don’t know what to tell you. 

you can say that again. 

richie says nothing for a beat, then: mikey and his fucking secrets, i don’t—

okay, okay. 

he breaks into a small smile as you watch him, and then you keep on looking at him even as the smile subsides. a car goes by, and you look down at the pavement as the headlights sweet over both your faces, only looking back up at him once the car is gone.

the thing is, you really did think you knew him. what a crazy thing to think, when this is a mistake you’ve already made before with michael. you thought you knew him too. 

there could be so much of richie you don’t know, because michael didn’t know—or because michael didn’t tell. and yet richie isn’t a stranger. at any moment you could close your eyes and picture his face, imagine his voice. he’s in you that much, at least.

so here he is, through your own eyes. you’re determined to fix him in your mind, not richie from the stories, but richie as he really is. his hair is dark and close-cut, his beard too. his eyebrows are scant, and there’s a ridge on his forehead as if to make up for it. his nose is straight and straightforward. there are bags under his eyes, because of course there are, but his eyes themselves are as blue as summer, so blue they’re barely believable. that’s him, that’s his face.

then there’s the eternal black leather jacket, oversized and complete with unnecessary shoulder straps for all the bags he’ll never carry. he stinks of kitchen in general and arby’s curly fries in specific. he’s allowing you to stare at him, an indulgence that you can’t question without being a dick. he makes you want to not be a dick. all this is here, all this is real. 

he rubs his nose with the side of his wrist. 

you must be tired, you say quietly.

when he smiles like that, it’s almost like you can look down past a few decades and see the teenager you never got to meet. i’m never tired, he says.

he’s always tired, you realize. of course he would be. you only ever see him after his long-ass shifts. go to bed, richie.

that was too gentle for sure, because he says a little curiously, getting some real weird vibes off you right now.

you take one last drag, then push off the side of the building, gathering yourself to go. you want normal, don’t come to me. 

heard, he says with a chuckle. g’night.

goodnight.

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[ chapter four ] [ masterlist ]

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@garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1 — if anyone else wants a tag, let me know.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

@isfjmel-phleg Well, I couldn't resist that prompt. This is extremely rough, and I reserve the right to decanonize any of this, but I had to take a stab at writing these two in this situation.

Beyond The Legend

"Tanza, what's this?" Auren called.

Tanza stormed into her house's gathering area, tossing aside the cloth she'd been wiping the dining table with. "Auren, I told you not to touch the electronics until I was rea—"

She froze.

The projection screen on the far wall was filled with the dull sparkle of a classic lumiscopic drama. The glimmers of purple and green added layers of depth to the muted colors of the image—which showed a square-jawed, golden-haired tephan man with ragged finery and a few artistically-placed smears of blood on his all-too-handsome face.

Auren was sitting on a soft chair, staring at the image. "Who is that?"

"An actor," Tanza said quickly, desperately scanning the room for the controls. If there was one drama Auren should not see…

"Naturally," Auren said, rolling his eyes. "What is his name? He seems familiar."

"Corphan Holbrith," Tanza said, then cursed her thoughtlessness. Auren might know the name. She might not be able to stop the showstream in time…

Auren's brow furrowed. "I've heard that name before. Usually accompanied by 'you're not as handsome as'."

"Well, you're not." Where on Arateph had Auren put her datapad?

"Thank you for your support, Tanza."

On the screen, Corphan Holbrith limped up a rocky mountain path, leaning heavily upon a man in an ill-fitting suit of workers' clothes.

Auren examined the image. "Do I resemble him? It's odd that its been remarked upon so often."

"He's extremely famous," Tanza said, desperately hoping to distract his attention. Why hadn't she sprung to get voice-controlled showstreams?

"For what?"

"He's been in a million lumiscopic dramas."

Behind the shelf—was that the control? Tanza dove to the floor. Just the light controls. She sprang to her feet, disgusted.

By now, Corphan Holbrith had reached a ramshackle door in the mountainside, but he was pulling away from his companion. "I must return," he said. "My people have need of me."

His companion tried to hold him back. "You must save yourself, lirishan."

Auren jumped at the word—a naming tongue title applied only to the crown prince.

The companion continued, " If Prince Auren dies, all hope is lost."

Tanza sank into a soft chair, defeated.

Auren gazed at her in open astonishment. "Is he—?"

"Prince Auren," Tanza sighed. "About thirty years ago, this role launched Holbrith's career. This drama was a sensation. Won all sorts of awards. People went crazy over it."

"Have you seen it?"

"A few times," Tanza said casually. Not in a million years would she tell Auren that she'd watched it every night for a year when she was twelve.

Auren grinned and turned back to the screen, his eyes sparkling with delight. "What's it about?"

Well, it didn't look like Auren was spiraling into traumatic memories, so maybe Tanza could run with this.

"Your typical revolutionary alternate history," she said. "Prince Auren was saved from the brink of death by a beautiful lady rebel who fell in love with him, was rescued by royalists, then escaped into the mountains, lost his memory, became a beloved member of the community, fell in love with the rebel lady, regained his memory, then had to decide whether to choose love or royal duty."

"What did he choose?"

"He tries to claim his kingdom, of course, while staying faithful to his love, but they both have to go into hiding and wait for the right time to emerge. It's all very artistic."

On-screen, the faux Prince Auren collapsed from exhaustion, while the beautiful dark-haired lady rebel wept over him, and berated the nobleman who'd been helping him up the mountain.

"I see that," Auren said with a grin.

"We can watch something else," Tanza said, finally spotting the controls beside the window.

"Not for all the money on Arateph."

Tanza shrugged and relaxed into her seat.

She had seen the drama a few times since she was twelve, but not since she'd met the actual Auren. The false history seemed even more melodramatic now that the real history was no longer hidden. Prince Auren was heroic and romantic—a sheltered royal cast out into a harsh world, tortured by his losses and driven by virtue.

"Please tell me I don't talk like that," Auren said.

The faux Prince Auren was giving a speech that had won Holbrith his first acting award. It actually was something Tanza could imagine the real Auren saying—all about hope in adversity—but the voice sounded strange in a way it never had before.

It was a pitch-perfect imitation of the way the royal accent sounded in decaying copies of pre-revolutionary recordings, but nothing like Auren's real voice—refined and old-fashioned, but with plenty of warmth and humor.

"Not a bit," Tanza said.

"Thank all the stars."

The story continued through yet another chase scene set among soaring mountain landscapes. "They thought I was in Kepha?" Auren asked.

"It made sense at the time," Tanza said. "Your mother's family was there, and the mountains have lots of places to hide."

Auren stared at the screen a moment, processing this new information. "No wonder it took them a hundred years to find me."

The story continued through chase scenes and fights, bouts of amnesia, dramatic speeches, narrow escapes, and touching emotional moments. The story was silly, sometimes surprisingly heartwrenching—but the story she'd seen a million times felt brand-new with the real Auren sitting beside her.

Once, Corphan Holbrith's Auren had been Tanza's ideal. He was noble. Unshakeable. A bit sheltered, but with a good heart. Capable of knocking down any number of rebels and then declaring his feelings to the love of his life. Enough inner turmoil to be endlessly fascinating to a twelve year old girl.

Holbrith's Auren was by far the most flattering portrayal of the controversial prince, but he was a pale shadow when placed next to the real thing. His Auren wasn't someone who would cook a meal, chat about the little details of a history student's day, laugh over a silly melodrama, face a world a hundred years in his own future.

The last scene of the story faded out—Prince Auren gazing over the land that he swore he would one day save, before disappearing into the mountain forest—leaving only the real Prince Auren.

"So that's the life I missed out on," Auren said. "I'm almost sad I slept through it instead. The real history must be disappointing compared to the legend."

"Are you kidding?" Tanza asked.

"It's certainly less exciting," Auren said. "And I'm no Corphan Holbrith."

"No," Tanza said, turning off the projector. "Believe me, the real thing is much better."

[luminaryofblood]

Mulling over some angst this time.

So, Mohg takes pride in his appearance. Dressing himself in fineries befitting someone of his status. As the Lord of Blood. Not like Morgott and his cloak of ragged furs... How it offends him, seeing his his brother turned into an absolute sycophant by the Golden Order.

No. Mohg refuses to be like that... He has grown vain in contrast to Morgott's humbleness.

But something happens. Mohg has met his match. Whether it be at the hands of a group of Tarnished. Maybe it was one of the other Shardbearers. Perhaps the Bloody Fingers have turned on their Lord of Blood, feeling that Mohg had grown soft over his infatuation with the divinity.

Maybe Mohg had found his way to the Land of Shadow. And during his pursuit of Miquella there, happened upon a formidable foe. And lost.

They do not kill him. But they seek to humiliate him. They shackle him("No! You will not shackle me!"), force him to his knees("I will not kneel!"). They strip him of his regalia. Tearing the black silks and ripping the golden mantle from his shoulders. Leaving him bear. Vulnerable.

To have been stripped of his title of Lord of Blood, leaving nothing more than... Mohg... The Omen.

... And it... Hurts... To have been debased and humbled... Like... Morgott...

[dent-de-leon]

He’s caged—like a demon. Like an animal. A soul damned over and over; from the Matron’s curse to his own infernal blood, a wretched fate and the wrong family line, the folly of his last fatal mistake—a little trinket shining in the moonlight, a prayer unanswered. 

Was the weight of those chains worth it? 

“It’s just another devil,” an archmage assured him. And Bren is forced to remember all the demons and devils he’d seen since ascending to the city, every creature chained and bound, paraded through the streets for the mages’ entertainment. The way it chilled him to the bone, seeing collars emblazoned with the names and ranks of other wizards, symbols of wealth and status as surely as any finery or crown.

He can’t see what's engraved on the tiefling’s collar, but the cuffs at his wrists and ankles are gold, glinting with jewels and adorned in intricate runes. And it makes Bren's stomach turn, seeing the red eyes branded all over his body—the countless scars he carried—

He starts tugging at the bandages on one arm, nails biting deep into the old fraying rags. Doesn’t think about his own scars still raw and burning, the shards of residuum gleaming just beneath the skin. The pinpricks of pain that never fade. 

In the back of that cage, the tiefling stirs; head frantically tossing and turning, his whole body trembling. Eyes still shut. A nightmare, Bren thinks, knows, can feel it in the pit of his stomach. The anguished, muted cries. The breaths coming too sharp and fast. He’s woken far too many nights in a cold sweat—especially when the scars were still fresh. 

When the tiefling’s tail twitches and lashes, clearly anxious, Bren's heart breaks a bit. 

The Somnovem’s captive was locked away far below the enchanting halls of the Dawn Crucible, one of the greatest wonders of the clandestine, outcast Cognouza Ward. High vaulted ceilings and walls, all luminous with the dancing flicker and flare of an ethereal, azure light—a soft, warm glow suffusing the whole dome. The walls an array of endless shelves, every one overflowing with books and scrolls and tomes as old as memory itself. The threshold crest the crown jewel of it all, a glistening crystal centerpiece to illuminate the whole rotunda in dazzling radiance, a temple worthy of eternity. 

“The birthplace of dreams,” an unnervingly zealous philosopher had promised. Her eyes were hollow, sunken, rimmed with dark circles. Bren wondered how a person could ever love dreaming so much, when they hadn’t slept in weeks—or months. Her magic seemed to spark with a kinetic energy, electric as a live wire. Her voice echoed with a moonstruck fervor, a divine reverence that was surely blasphemy. And wherever Bren turned, he could still sense her unerring gaze.

And here, down below an archive of endless dreams and possibility, the only light was the faint flicker of arcane torches. And Bren was faced with rows of human cages. He tries not to think of all the other prisoners, where they came from or who they were, what horrible misfortune had cost them everything, banished them to the darkest corner of a reigning empire. 

“Why this one?” He can’t help but ask, even as he kicks himself for letting the words slip out. It’s foolish—dangerous. You were never this stupid before, he chides himself, Clever as you are, with things like this—you’re stupid. 

The philosopher, Elatis, smiles warmly. It makes his skin crawl. 

“Of all our research subjects, he has the greatest potential. Within his soul lies the key to eternity,” she said with a wondrous, contented sigh. “We are all of us the enemy to death, to suffering, to grief. But for all the horror she’s wrought, the Matron has also given us the very thing we need. She has planted the seeds, and now it is time to harvest.”

Fate touched, Bren realizes. Forever bound to a fate he could never hope to fight, strung up by the Matron like a puppet, the threads of destiny already woven. A prisoner, a pawn, another doomed soul to be sacrificed for the gods. 

And for an archmage, a soul touched by the divine was a powerful conduit for otherworldly magic. Enslaved like the devils they bent to their will, the very essence of their life siphoned away. Mages bathing in their blood for just a taste of the divine. 

With a whispered word and a wave of her hand, the cage door swung open, and Elatis stepped inside. She moved with a certain grace, as dignified as any noble. And when she knelt at the broken tiefling’s side, reached out a hand to embrace him—her touch was almost gentle. Kind. 

“Shh. Hush, Nonagon. You were destined for this,” Elatis soothes, her voice washing over him in a soft, lilting lullaby. 

She combed back a lock of hair to revel a crimson Eye branding his throat—a voracious hunger reflected in her own haunting stare. 

She beckoned for Bren to join him, and he was helpless to do anything but follow. Gaze pointedly averted as he crossed the threshold, forced himself to enter the tiefling’s prison. He can’t bear to look too closely, to see just how much the poor thing suffered. He could only bite his tongue and shudder, willing himself not to see. 

Beside him, the philosopher kept petting the long, dark locks of the tiefling’s tousled curls. It would have been comforting, perhaps even maternal, if not for the iron bars that caged him, the golden chains that bound him body and soul. 

“Aeor and Zemnias are the last remaining bastions of mortals,” Elatis mourned, her dark, piercing gaze softening for but a moment. “It was good of your master to send you here to learn, to join us in this time of so much war and strife. All are welcome here, in our design. You have but to ask, and we will open your mind to the Dream.”

My master wishes to see you fall, Bren thought darkly, Trent’s words still echoing in his head. “Join them. Learn from them all you can. Aid them, obey them. And steal whatever secrets you find. Bring back a weapon worthy of the Empire, one that can bring an end to Aeor.” 

“The tiefling you chose. He…was he alone when you found him? Has he no family?” The words taste like ash on his tongue, hanging heavy on his heart. Merely speaking them was tantamount to treason; any soul claimed by the gods, bound to their will—in the eyes of Aeor, their lives were already forfeit.

And when Elatis let him rifle through his personal artifacts, all that was confiscated from his person when they bound him in chains, Bren didn’t miss the shining little trinket of a crescent moon. The prayer to the Moonweaver foolishly scribbled on a bloodstained note. 

Another voice cackled, dark and gleeful. An elven archmage stood on the other side of the bars, teeth far sharper than any elf Bren had ever seen. His skin was a sickly pallor, and his eyes were rimmed by heavy circles just as dark and deep as Elatis’. 

When Bren looked at him closer, he swore for just a moment the man's eyes turned red.

Culpasi. He had seen the philosopher only in passing, but already loathed his company. 

“Oh, don’t you know where they got him?” The elf asked innocently, his smile sharp as a knife. “Some little troupe of traveling performers, in some shithole little town back on Exandria. A happy family of tieflings, putting on plays and nunnery. Quaint and adorable, I’m sure. Well, until someone looked into the caravan, and found out one of the kids was a walking corpse. Parents handed him over to some hag, if you can believe that. And the things they made their other son do, well…let’s just say, he’s far better off in here. Rather lucky we found him, really.” 

“He…struggled, the first few years,” Elatis admitted sadly. “Lashed out whenever someone got too close, afraid of our gifts. But we helped him to forget, the poor dear; opened his mind to the Dreams—cleared his troubled head a bit. And he’s been quite docile and tame ever since.” 

“Lost all the fight in him when we emptied out his thick skull,” Culpasi said, with a knowing grin that made Caleb’s heart twist. 

The way the philosopher looks at him, it’s like he knows, and it makes Bren sick. 

There’s this…hollow emptiness, that lives deep inside him, some vital part that was cut out and carved away. Excising the rot, so the rest of the tree can grow—that’s what they told him, when they took it. When he woke with weeks and months and years just gone, all of it slipping away. He doesn’t remember who Bren Aldrich Eremund was before he boarded his first skyship, the boy who lived in the world below. They took it, when they broke him. Reforged his soul in fire and brimstone, dug deep beneath his skin and tore him up from the inside. 

Did Bren have a family? A home? Did someone miss him, somewhere far below the sky and stars down there? 

Or was he like the tiefling, all alone? Abandoned? Forsaken by family and the gods both. 

From within the cage, a soft, mournful cry echoes. Inhuman, but so innately mortal. Anguished. Heartbroken. The kind of hushed, choked back cries that escaped Caleb in the midst of his own night terrors. 

Bren had seen his victims beg. Had heard the words, alien and distant, discordant—as if submerged deep beneath dark waters, drifting and drowning and fighting for breath. The rest of the world a distant memory. He hears it, sees it, but he’s choking and gasping, can’t move, can’t breathe, pulled under by the current. He suffocates, and everything burns. 

They were traitors, enemies to the Empire, Caleb told himself, chanting the mantra over and over, shutting out the sight of all those fearful eyes and agonized screams. But…if he was ordered to partake in this creature’s torment, to torture this being whose only crime was being born to a wretched fate—

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t the same, it wasn’t the enemy, a killer, a poison, a betrayer—

He had a family, Bren thinks, and for some reason, that more than anything breaks him. 

In Elatis’ arms, the sleeping tiefling continues to tremble and shake, thrashing in some subconscious attempt to break free of her grasp, twisting and writhing with a plaintive, desperate cry. “Empty,” he chokes out weakly, voice soft and slurred by sleep. He echoes the word again and again, a breathless litany, a hollow chant of shaking breaths. “Empty. Empty. Empty—” 

“Shh. Come now, dear. No more of that.” 

Elatis runs her hands over a single red Eye, and all at once the tiefling’s shaking body falls still, an eerie, disquieting calm falling over him like a shroud. As another dream claims him, the tiefling smiles faintly, as if finally at peace.  

“W-What did you do?” Bren whispers. 

Elatis pats the boy’s head fondly. “I merely let him have the Dream his heart desires. You see? Through dreams, even the most haunted soul can heal. It is our blessing, a gift—one that we wish to share with the whole world. Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

It’s cruel, Bren thinks. You’ve done nothing but carve out every part of him. You’re toying with him, pulling at his strings just like the Matron. “It certainly seems…useful,” he says, and lets the rest die on his tongue, choking it back like bile. 

Elatis’ smile is purely tranquil, beatific. “Whenever you wish, we will always be there to welcome you home. Now, forgive me, but I must attend to other matters before tonight’s ritual. I look forward to working with you, Bren; I can sense you have a wonderful imagination, one I’m sure will create the loveliest dreams. Sleep well.” 

She glided down the dark corridor, humming a soft, soothing melody as she disappeared into the dungeons’ depths. 

Culpasi made to follow her, but not before getting far too close for Bren’s liking, and resting a deathly cold hand on his shoulder. 

“A word of advice, friend,” he said, still smiling bright. “Maybe don’t do anything stupid, alright? I mean, really—letting a wild animal out of its cage? What do you think will happen?” 

Before Bren could stammer out that he had no idea what the mage was going on about, the elf turned on his heel, and vanished in a cloud of burning smoke. 

As the searing heat and choking taste of ash began to fade, Bren stood alone. There was only the darkness, the cage—and the hollow, empty soul who laid still before him. A sudden impulse seized him, desperate and foolish. Suicidal. What the hell are you thinking, Eremund? What in the world are you doing? He was reaching out to the tiefling before he could stop himself, acting on sheer instinct, compelled by some force more powerful than any charm or curse. 

Bren’s hand hovered above him uncertainly, hanging over the tiefling’s shoulder for but a moment. Verdammt. In a snap decision, he shook the tiefling roughly, enough to wake him from the mage’s spell.

“Hey! You—ah, you are, the traveling player, ja? From the little caravan troupe? Do you remember?”

The creature stirred from twisting dreams, tossing and turning as his tail lashed with every shaking breath. Bleary eyes blinked open wide amidst the charm induced haze, peering out fearfully into the darkness, glowing with a feral light. Eyes as red as the brands upon his skin, but…softer. Full of longing. 

Though Bren’s words didn’t seem to reach him, there was a waking intelligence in his piercing crimson gaze, the stirring remnants of a soul that had not yet been broken.

“Can…can you hear me?” Bren whispered softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face, looking him in the eyes. Bearing a part of his heart he had long since buried. “I…I feel empty too. I know what it is, what they did to you…And I swear, I—I won’t hurt you.” 

A flash of fear flickers in those hollow, empty eyes, a brief spark of something in that vacant, glassy stare. You’re in there, somewhere, Bren thinks, latching onto it like a lifeline, seizing that single thread of fading consciousness. Reaches out and pulls until it all unravels. 

“You don’t want to die down here, do you?” He whispers, bending down to gaze right into the tiefling’s burning carmine eyes. “You want to live.” 

[the-ellia-west]

Confession tag, tagged by the lovely @agirlandherquill

A confession scene - it can be about anything!

-

(Mild spoiler warning for TCOT)

Shyre took a measured breath, pressing her back against the wall. She was fine. It meant nothing now. She was only here for information, nothing more, nothing less. That kiss meant nothing now.

She set her shoulders and twisted all anxiety from her face. She would be a ridged ruler. One her father could be proud of.

The Noblewoman stepped further into the prison, Silic following closely behind her. She waved the prison guard aside and faced the prisoner, steeling herself. At her footsteps, he looked up, long strings of dirty, tangled black hair shielding his face in a sheet. He flipped his head back, golden eyes piercing into hers. Silic dropped into a fighting stance, spear pointed right at his neck as the prisoner lunged for her, chains clanking slack.

His face now only a few inches from hers, Shyre saw the tear tracks through the dirt and ash on his face, and the whiskers of stubble from days of isolation lining his jaw. He flashed her a nasty grin, straining against his chains. "Well hello there, Miss Rayeli."

"Marril."

"So you still remember my name? I wouldn't have guessed!"

"Spare me the small talk, Assassin. Who are you really? No lies this time." Her voice came steadier than she felt as a halo of coral flames sparked to life over her head.

He laughed, hanging his head as if he didn't have the energy to hold it up any longer. "So that's why you came here... I'm surprised, My lady. My name is the one thing I didn't lie to you about."

"You know what she means!" Silic twirled his spear around and jammed the butt of it into the Assassin's ribs.

Marril snarled at him, "Fine." He backed up, standing tall as he glared at both of them, bearing his rags as if they were finery. "I'm Adllsais. I'm your dirty, common murderer. And my masters wanted you dead. I played your game, and you played mine. Your only worth was in gold.

"Now run along little noble. You too, bastard. Maybe mom will be happy to see you when she's learned you killed me."

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